Yesterday's Tomorrow
by Potter47
Summary: ABANDONED. The completed third part of the Yesterday Sequence is now called "Yesterday's Tears."
1. Prologue

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47_

**_ Prologue  
Interview with the Potions Master_**

"What's past is prologue."  
Shakespeare 

A figure sat in a chair behind a great desk. He — for it was clear that the figure was male — was clothed in darkness, his face invisible in the shadows of the chamber. He set a quill on a piece of parchment, muttered something, and the quill stood upright, erect with attentiveness.

"Sit down, if you may," the man said, gesturing. He had a very deep voice, though he spoke rather haltingly. "Now, let's...start at the beginning, shall we?"

Professor Snape sat opposite him, glaring. He did not like this man. But of course, that was to be expected. Snape did not feel comfortable telling him the truth — he could easily lie, he thought, and never would anyone be the wiser. But Dumbledore had insisted.

"That would be the logical place," drawled Snape.

"Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" said the man, nodding. He cleared his throat. Snape could not see his face, for the darkness, and he did not like that the man could see his.

"Your name? Title?"

"Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master."

"And you have...borne witness to the anomalous events of the past months?"

"Yes. Nearly all of them."

"When did the...events begin?"

A moment of silence. "When the bell jar fell."

"Explain about this bell jar," said the man. He leaned back in his chair, watching the quill scratching on the parchment, taking down what they were saying.

"The bell jar is tall; it glitters with light; it is made of crystal. Within it is contained a hummingbird. It is located in the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic." Snape took a breath. "The late Vincent Crabbe, Senior, bewitched it to fall upon Potter and Miss Weasley."

"Full names?"

"Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley."

"And what happened when this...bell jar...fell upon the two students?"

"They were transported backwards in time, to the years of 1945 and 1978. No one knows why."

"_No_...one?" the man said, disbelief clear in his voice.

"Not that I know of," said Snape. He continued:

"They returned after two full days, though by that time their friends had been kidnapped by the Dark Lord."

"Which friends?"

"Miss Granger, Miss Lovegood—" the man seemed to draw a harsh breath; "—and Mr Weasley."

"Full names?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "_Hermione_ Granger, _Luna_ Lovegood, and _Ronald_ Weasley."

"And...then what happened?" the man asked.

"I left Hogwarts in attempt to rescue the three students. They had been imprisoned at the Riddle House, in the dungeons. Each was interviewed individually by the Dark Lord, and he demanded of them information they were not willing to give. Trelawney arrived in full Death Eater robes—"

"Full name?"

Snape rolled his eyes, practically growling. "_Professor Sibyll_ Trelawney. She arrived, stated that she was also a spy for the Order, and began spouting nonsense about her Inner Eye. It was then that Potter arrived with Miss Weasley."

"Full names?"

"I already stated them."

"Oh, yes... Of course. What happened next?"

"Miss Lovegood removed the Dark Lord's thumb," stated Snape.

"_Removed_...it?" said the man. "How?"

"With a pocket-knife." Snape raised his arm, curled his finger to demonstrate. "It was a _Harpy_. Shaped like a _claw_." The quill made a sketch of the shape.

"Potter arrived just as the Dark Lord was to kill Lovegood, apparently. He used the _Tempus Fugit _spell, and stole the Dark Lord's wand."

"Do you...have any idea how the boy...learned such a spell?"

"No," said Snape, shaking his head. "Not a clue."

"I...thought you were his..._teacher?_"

Snape glared at the man. "I...am...his..._Potions_...professor," he mocked, "or at least I used to be."

"Used to be?"

"Rumour has it he did not do very well on his potions OWL." Snape smiled slightly. "Lucky me."

"Continue...in your explanation, if you will."

"Surely," said Snape. "Chaos ensued. Potter, Miss Weasley, and Miss Lovegood arrived at our cell—the Dark Lord following close behind."

"Another...confrontation between the two of the...prophecy?" remarked the man. "Intriguing."

Snape narrowed his eyes—"It is not out of the ordinary; they have confronted nearly nightly over the past year, most unknowingly."

"Ah, of course," said the man, "the cause of Potter's failed...Occlumency lessons...of course. Continue, if you will."

Snape did so: "The Dark Lord managed to get hold of Potter's wand, but did not use it—perhaps he was not able. Potter still has the Dark Lord's wand, to this day."

"And what does he plan on...doing with it?"

"Who knows?" said Snape, shrugging slightly.

"Continue—"

"—in my explanation, if I will," said Snape. "Sure thing. The Dark Lord had set up Potter—it turned out that Pettigrew, who had taken me captive in the kitchen of the Riddle House, was actually Trelawney in disguise—she was a loyal Death Eater."

"Where is she now?"

"In Azkaban," said Snape, and the man leaned forward slightly, attentive, curious.

"But the Dementors revolted—any Death Eaters left in Azkaban had broken out—"

"Not Trelawney," said Snape. "She has stayed in her cell, I'm told, never complaining, never speaking a word."

"Worthy of note, that is," said the man, leaning back once again.

"If you say so," said Snape. "Continuing—Potter and his friends — along with myself — eventually returned to Hogwarts, where things weren't what one could call 'anomalous', till the end of term."

"And what happened at...the end of term?" the man said expectantly—Snape furrowed his brow.

"Nothing—the students went home. Of course nothing anomalous happened at Hogwarts _after_ the end of term—I was merely stating that for the rest of the term, nothing special happened."

"Then please do...say that next time," said the man. He cleared his throat—_hem, hem._ "Now," he said. "Things began acting anomalous once again soon thereafter—" Snape wondered why the man seemed so fascinated with the word 'anomalous'; "when were you first taken into...what is it called? Logical-Land?"

"Logica-Land," corrected Snape, though of course the man heard no difference — "and it was one week ago—well, a week ago yesterday. "

"One week ago," repeated the man, as if the scratching quill had inquired the last thing said. "And what was the date?"

"The eleventh of July."

"And what exactly is...Logical-Land?"

"It is a world," said Snape. "A fantastical world that exists, now, shoulder to shoulder with our own. It was created in the mind of Miss Lovegood—"

"The same Miss Lovegood?" cut in the man harshly, leaning forward so that half of his face could be seen—Snape noticed a day or two's stubble on his chin, which boasted a large cleft, slightly off-centre. "Surely not the...mother?"

"The same Miss Lovegood," said Snape, wondering why the man had reacted so violently. "Luna Lovegood, Ravenclaw, fifth year come September."

"Yes, yes, of course," said the man, relaxed once again. "Of course. You were...describing this...Logical-Land?"

Snape now cleared his throat, not nearly as loudly as the man had. "The place is non-magical, entirely, apart from myself—I am there known as 'the Wizard', for I am the only Wizard to exist there, it seems, for decades."

"But... you said that Miss Lovegood created this place...how then could it be decades old?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Snape. "If you wish for me to describe Logica-Land for your record, I do believe you'd best be silent for at least three moments in a row."

"Of course," said the man. "Go right ahead—what does this place look like?"

"It is old-fashioned, and recalls London in its features."

The man seemed confused; "How on earth does a place resemble London?"

Snape blinked. "By having similar buildings, streets, et cetera," he said, himself bewildered as to what confused the man, who now laughed softly, a slight throaty chuckle.

"Oh, of course—the city—go on ahead with your telling."

"Thank you," said Snape, and did so: "Five days had past since my initial arrival when a most unexpected thing happened—Miss Lovegood happened upon my quarters, accompanied by a Harpy, and—"

"Her knife?" said the man, and Snape shook his head.

"Of course not—the creature. Accompanied by a Harpy and none other than Miss Granger—"

"Hermione Granger?" asked the man. "Potter's friend?"

Snape was getting immensely irritated by the constant questions this man seemed to have. "There are not many Grangers that I could be speaking of," said Snape bitterly. "In fact, the only one I know of — apart from my student — is a resident brewer in an apothecary in Wales—not exactly relevant to this story, is he?"

"No, I perceive not," said the man. "Continue."

"I was planning on it," said Snape. "Anyway, Miss Granger arrived, not recalling that she was indeed a witch, for of course those in Logica-Land do not quite believe in magic. They believe in many things, but magic is not one of them. Half of them don't even think I — the Wizard, that is — truly exist."

"Do you?" said the man, and Snape did not grace the question with a response.

"Miss Granger eventually allowed herself to believe that she was indeed a witch. She and I were both taken out of Logica-Land, however, and—"

"Do you have...any ideas as to who...or what...decides when you are taken in, and taken out, of Logical-Land?" said the man shrewdly. Snape did not.

"I assume it is random," he said, and the man seemed to find this interesting, for he stroked his chin.

"Of course," said the man. "Of course."

Snape continued: "Nothing of interest happened to me until sometime in the middle of the night—I don't know what time—when I was taken out of my bed, or more accurately, my bed disappeared from beneath me, and I was somewhere else entirely."

"And this is when the...switch, may I call it? When the _switch _occurred?"

"Apparently," said Snape. "I found myself in a cell at Azkaban prison, with none other than Miss Granger as my cellmate—yes, _the same Miss Granger_," he clarified, before the man could ask.

"Soon after—or, perhaps not, for we had no means by which to tell the time—came Weasley and Miss Lovegood—the same ones as well—to our cell. They had been taken as well, and we discovered the cause of the...switch, you called it? I suppose that works. The cause of the switch."

"And that was...?"

"Miss Lovegood, essentially, reached back in time and changed the event that would forever alter the course of her life—and, without knowing it, our entire world."

"And what was this event?"

"Her mother's death."

The man did not speak for a long while, though Snape did not sense that he was supposed to continue—the man was thinking, reflecting, doing something in his head, something.

"Her mother's death?" he echoed finally. "C-_Cynthia_ _Cy—_Lovegood, Cynthia Lovegood's death?"

"That is what I said."

The man cleared his throat, sitting up in his chair, back a bit straighter than it had been a moment before. "You may continue."

"The four of us were taken to another location, I do not know precisely where. We were placed in a cage—directly across from another cage, containing Miss Lovegood's parents. The Dark Lord arrived, tormenting, torturing us. Miss Granger and I were then taken back into Logica-Land, and—"

"Convenient, wasn't it?" said the man, interrupting. "That you just happened to be taken when in dire need of help?"

"And there we found the Harpy, the live one, not the knife, lying next to death on the floor."

"Death was also on the floor, then?" said the man, and Snape did not know what he was talking about.

"She died before we could help her, but she did tell us of her attacker, who—"

"What did the attacker look like?" said the man, though Snape had been about to say anyway.

"It was a man in dark robes," said Snape. "Who wore my face."

"Polyjuice?" asked the man, but Snape shook his head.

"I believe it had to have been the Wizard—the one who is in Logica-Land when I am here, my doppelganger, if that is the correct word. It is the only logical explanation."

"And it is Logical-Land," reminded the man, thinking. "You may continue."

"There is not much left to say—we were taken out of Logica-Land once again, and were able to help Miss Lovegood and her mother escape—the other two had been killed."

"And then?"

Snape looked at the man evenly. "And then," he said, "I died."

"You died?" said the man incredulously. "How on earth...did you—"

"The Dark Lord, he..." And Snape hesitated. Why did he have to tell the specifics, after all?

"The Dark Lord cursed me, that is all. I found myself in my bed again after the worlds had been switched back. And that is the end."

"Oh, no," said the man, and he stood, walking round his desk—Snape saw his entire face for the first time; "that is the beginning."

Snape blinked, and stood as well. "How do you mean?" he said, eye-to-eye with this mysterious man.

"See you at Hogwarts," said the man, and he left it at that. With a _crack_, he was gone, or so Snape had thought—but no. _Snape_ was the one that had gone, and now he was at Hogwarts himself, in his rooms. But why? And how? After all, one can not Apparate or Disapparate on Hogwarts grounds, so how had he, how had Morgen, how had he...done that?

Snape did not care to know.

**_

Author's Note

_**

If any of the events told of in this prologue intrigued you, I suggest you read the first two fics in the Yesterday Sequence, _Living inside Yesterday _and _Believe in Yesterday_, which present them in much more detail. Of course, you should have read them already anyway, but, you know, just in case...however, it is not entirely necessary to have read those fics, it would just be rather nice. You'd understand a bit better, but not so much.

Intrigued by Yesterday? Check out the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_

Please review.


	2. Blood Relative

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _

**_ Part One  
The Shadow of Death_**

"In what distant deeps or skies  
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?  
On what wings dare he aspire?  
What the hand dare seize the fire?"  
William Blake

**_ Chapter One  
Blood Relative _**

"Don't you see it, Ginny? Don't you feel it?"

Whispers, whispers were all that could be heard, breaking the silence, cutting with each syllable into her mind, deeper, deeper, deeper still.

"It is..._beginning_."

_What is beginning? What could be beginning? What in hell did he mean? _Ginny did not know—so she then asked:

"What is? What are you—what do you—what does it—what _is_ it—" She could not speak, could not finish her questions, for there were far too many questions, yes, too many questions. There were always too many questions, and never were there enough answers, no, never, not once. Ginny didn't like that—why couldn't, just once, someone give answers before revealing the next mystery, the next enigma, the next riddle?

He smiled, but did not speak, and then he was gone—he did not fade, he did not slowly vanish before her eyes—he was gone, just gone, with no intermediate stage of disappearance.

But the other, the other was there still, the girl. She turned towards Ginny, or did Ginny turn towards her? She—Ginny, that is—could not tell.

"Don't mind him," the girl said with a slight smile. "You know how he is—always speaking in riddles. Probably doesn't mean a thing."

"You're...right," said Ginny finally. The girl's smile widened.

"Or am I?" she said, and then she was gone as well, leaving Ginny alone.

Ginny realised then that her breath was coming only in short gasps, pants, and now she thought to breathe, in and out and in and out. It was loud, her breathing, or at least it was to herself—the loudest (and only) sound in the Chamber.

Ginny laid back now, her eyes closing, her head on the hard cold stone. All was completely silent once more, until a whisper, odd and songlike came from beside her head. And then...and then a...a _bang! _followed the whisper, jolting Ginny awake.

"_Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer came down, upon her head—do do do do do! Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer made sure that she was dead..._"

Ginny groaned, and her eyes opened now. Six fifty-eight, on the nose. And with wakefulness came what had recently eclipsed 'Eleanor Rigby' as her least favourite song in the world.

Staring at the ceiling, now dimly lit with shadows, Ginny reached out blindly and groped for the 'off' button on the damn wireless. She only succeeded, however, in knocking the thing to the floor, and she was going to make herself pick it up, but she realised the music had stopped.

Ginny smiled to herself sleepily. _Well, that's one way to do it,_ she reasoned.

The smile faded as she recalled her dream. She wished it would stop — every day since ... since the first time, since it actually happened — every day she had had that nightmare, the Chamber, with her selves. And what she hated about it the most was that she wasn't sure anymore, what they had actually said, and what came from her subconscious.

Ginny shook herself and closed her eyes again. She felt sleepiness return now, and she reckoned that perhaps it would be a good dream for once, but —

A scream? Had she heard a scream? And a — Ginny opened her eyes, and cocked her head to listen better — a crash? Yes, she was sure of it — it was soft, yes, but there was no mistaking the sound. A cry for help, coming from the front yard.

Ginny sat up in bed quickly, and with the sound of another cry, she practically ran from her room, to the stairs, not taking any care not to make noise — she didn't think of the fact that most of her family was surely still asleep. And (though she didn't know it) even her mother had slept late — though seven o'clock could hardly be considered 'late' — today.

Ginny sort of slipped on one of the stairs and tripped down a couple steps, falling into the wall with a loud crash.

_They're all awake now, _she thought.

Jumping the last stairs, Ginny made her way to the front door, and (foolishly, really) flung it open, to see what was the matter. The sight that met her eyes was one that she would never forget.

A woman—crying, sobbing, bleeding, screaming—was on the doorstep. She had been battering her arms against the front door, and now that it was open, she went through and knocked Ginny to the floor, falling in atop her.

"They're gone!" cried the woman, voice hoarse, grabbing Ginny by the shoulders of her pyjamas, shaking her. "They're all gone!"

And Ginny knew this woman, recognised her somehow as she tried to stop the shaking. Unable to speak, Ginny pushed the woman by the arms, trying to get her off, but her efforts were futile.

In a moment, however, another set of arms was pulling the woman off of Ginny, who was by now so dizzy that she could hardly think straight. Once she could focus, Ginny saw Harry above her, staring at the woman open-mouthed. He spoke in a dazed voice:

"Aunt Petunia?"

And it was; she looked up at him with a rather dazed look, and just stared for a moment, breathing. Ginny noticed that Petunia's fingers were bleeding, and...Ginny felt a sort of shiver down her spine when she saw that the fingernails were missing. She had been clawing at the door.

"Harry?" Petunia asked eventually. "What—what are you doing here?"

This seemed, to Ginny, one of the oddest questions that she could have possible asked.

"Me?" said Harry. "What about you? What are you doing here?"

This seemed to remind Petunia of what she was doing here, and she suddenly screamed again, inarticulate, and fell down unconscious on the floor.

Harry and Ginny looked from her form, to each other, and then back, both wondering what exactly had happened, and neither bothering to ask the other, for of course they did not know either.

Ginny heard a very loud stomping coming from the stairs, and when she spun round she saw Fred, George, Ron, and her father, all behind her mother, who had gotten to the bottom first, eyes wide.

"What happened? Who is—" she began, coming over to the three and taking a look at Petunia. "Oh, sweet Merlin." She put a hand over her mouth, looking at the unconscious woman. "What's happened?"

"I dunno—" said Harry. "She just...she was attacking Ginny. Can't imagine...why..."

All of the Weasley males present simply watched in silence, mouths wide, some in shock, some in yawn.

"She was banging at the door, screaming about somebody being gone—dead-gone, I think, seemed like, not missing-gone," said Ginny, gesticulating wildly for no reason that she could fathom. "She just...sort of grabbed me, because I opened the door when she was banging on it, and she fell, and—"

"That's enough, Ginny," said her mother, nodding. "We'll have to put her in a bed someplace. I'll...no, Arthur?" She turned round, addressing her husband. "You Floo Dumbledore, explain what's happened, and ask about what to do."

Ginny's father swallowed visibly, eyes widening even farther. "Me? What—what do I say? I don't know how to explain this—"

"Just _do _it, Arthur," said his wife. She pointed at Petunia. "Harry, you and Ron move her up into one of the twins' beds, and—"

"What?" said one of the twins' beds' owner. "Why does she have to be in our room—"

"Because you're going to be at work all day—"

"So's Dad!"

"Oh, just be quiet, George, please—"

"Fred!"

"Whatever! Just...everybody do as you're told!"

Silence followed this statement, as everyone looked about at each other. Ginny, hands in her pyjama pockets so that she wouldn't imagine them without fingernails, furrowed her brow. "You heard her!" she said. "Go!"

——

"How's she been?" Harry asked, leaning against the doorway of the twins' room with a forlorn look on his face. He'd only been gone for a few moments, to the loo, but it seemed longer. Ginny looked up at him from her seat by the bed.

"The same," she said. "If she wasn't breathing, I'd swear she was dead."

Harry smirked grimly. "Well, yeah," he said, taking the seat he'd left, next to Ginny, "that's a pretty good time to swear someone's dead, when they're not breathing."

"That's not very funny," said Ginny, but Harry had known as soon as the words left his mouth.

Harry gazed down at his aunt with a very troubled look on his face. She did look dead, but as Harry knew, that was how she always looked when she was asleep. She was always facing straight up, never to the side, and her arms were on her chest. Even when she'd fainted, she still found a way to end up like that.

Harry felt decidedly odd, watching her sleep, but if he left, he only wanted to come back. He didn't know why.

"What's wrong?" Ginny asked, putting her hand on his. He clasped it without looking at her.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

"You think I'm daft?" Ginny said. "Of course there's something wrong. I can always tell, I thought we'd been over this."

He smiled slightly, and shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "It's just...what do you think happened? To her? And...who's dead? She said someone was dead, right?"

Harry put an arm round Ginny's shoulders, and then he wasn't even sure if he'd done it on purpose.

"I don't know what I think happened," said Ginny, settling into the embrace. "I think...probably something to do with—"

"Voldemort, yeah," said Harry, nodding. "I just wish, for once, that it wouldn't be him."

Ginny looked up at him shrewdly. "You mean you want _two_ homicidal maniacs going after you and your family?"

"I've already got all the Death Eaters, I reckon that's more than two."

"I suppose."

Silence. Harry could somehow feel Ginny's breathing through her shoulders—or perhaps it was his own.

An odd feeling came over Harry, and he found words coming to his mouth suddenly, hesitantly, words he hadn't thought to speak:

"What am I...Ginny?" he said. "What do you...think of me?"

"What?" said Ginny, looking up at Harry as if he were barmy. "What do I think of you? I love you, Harry, you know that."

Harry grimaced, though he could not fathom why he did so, or if he had actually done it, even.

Ginny blinked, pulling away from him slightly. "What was that?" she asked.

And then it was gone; he was himself again, and not sure of what had happened.

"What?" Harry asked. "What was what?"

"You...it looked like it..._pained _you, to hear me say I loved you," Ginny said, sounding offended. "What was that?"

"I did?" Harry said, putting a hand to his head. He...felt rather dizzy, rather light-headed.

"Yes," said Ginny, standing and narrowing her eyes. "Yes, you did."

And Harry's world tilted, turned so violently that it knocked him flat unconscious, though he was still in his chair.

——

Ginny stared at Harry, who was slumped over for only a moment before he righted himself, so brief a time that Ginny doubted whether it had really been.

What had happened?

"G—_Ginny_," said Harry now, standing, an odd look in his eye. "I dunno what happened..."

He took a step towards her, and she stepped back, into the nightstand, causing the lamp to rattle and fall over onto the floor, shattered.

"What's wrong?" said Harry. "Are you...what, are you _afraid _of me?"

"I don't know," said Ginny. "Should I be?"

Ginny took another step, now scraping her foot on a shard of the lamp and falling back onto the other twin's bed, wincing with the sharp pain.

"Ginny, there's no reason to be afraid," said Harry, shaking his head, but Ginny could not believe him, for reasons she couldn't quite figure out, she could not believe him. Something was wrong, though she did not know what, or how. It was just a nagging feeling, very tiny, but she felt it just the same.

Harry took another step towards her, and she backed up, pulling her legs onto the bed with her, scooting backwards into the wall, into the corner. She was trapped—no escape, no, no way to get out...

And Harry just looked at her with an odd look on his face, as if he couldn't figure why she was acting like this. He looked at her, and she looked back in fear. She did not like being afraid, not of Harry—she had never been afraid of Harry, and no, she didn't like it.

"What is wrong, Ginny?" Harry asked again, and she winced again from the pain in her foot—she realised that the shard was actually _in_ her foot, and now that she realised it she could not ignore it, could not forget it.

"Ginny, let me...let me _help you_. With that," Harry said, pointing at her foot. And Ginny did not know why, could not know why, but she wouldn't let him. She shook her head, just enough, and tears began to well in her eyes because she did not know why she did it.

"Please leave me alone."

And then Harry did something—something that perhaps he had not even tried to do. For just a split second, Harry's mouth quirked up in a triumphant smirk, and then it was gone, replaced with a look of sorrow. She had seen it clearly, perhaps more clearly than she was supposed to have. It had gone in less than a second, Ginny knew, but in her mind that second had lasted for ever, and still she saw it in her mind, even when Harry obediently left the room.

She began to sniffle, and tears poured down her cheeks uncontrollably, from both the pain inside her and out.

She looked down—red was seeping through the bottom of her sock, and (very painfully) she pulled it from her foot.

There was a gash in her foot, inches long, a long slit that hurt like hell now that she felt it. And embedded in it was a very large shard of glass that had gone entirely through her sock. She wished now that she had not knocked the lamp over.

Wiping her eyes of the tears that blurred her vision, Ginny reached down and held her hand over her foot for what seemed like hours before she finally was able to get the nerve to touch it, to pull it out. When she did, she let out a scream that could wake the dead.

In fact, it nearly did so.

——

Harry walked out into the hallway slowly, closing the door carefully behind him. He took a step down the hall, reached his hand out and ran it along the wall.

He smiled now, grinned like he had never grinned before, and if anyone were there to see him, they would have seen how unlike Harry the smile looked—it appeared simply _wrong_ on his face, simply and completely _wrong. _But that did not matter; it _was_ there, it _was_ on his face.

And now he leaned his back against the hallway wall, closed his eyes and laughed, quietly, not loudly enough for Ginny to hear from inside the room. He heard an unearthly scream sound from within the room, and apparently he found this simply hilarious. He laughed even harder and then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed on the hall floor.

_Author's Note _

Things are going to be a bit different on this story, as opposed to the first two of the Yesterday Sequence. For starters, I will no longer say the next chapter title at the end of each chapter — only the quote. This is because the majority of the planned chapter titles in this fic give far too much of the plot away, if you read them any period of time before you read the actual chapter...too much time to think on them, you see.

I'd like to say right here that this probably won't be finished before HBP--but, if I'm lucky, it'll be close.

Speaking of the release date, I do feel it is rather odd that the sixth book is coming out on the Sixteenth of July, when that happened to also be the date that _Believe in Yesterday_ began on—in the story, that is, not when I started writing it. I did not specifically state this date, but I did say that it was a Tuesday in the middle of July, and the only Tuesday in the middle of July, in 1996, was the sixteenth.

As always, review, and keep reading.

**_ Next Chapter _**

"Yesterday, a shaft of light cut into the darkness..."  
John F. Kennedy ****

Coming Soon 

Intrigued by Yesterday? Check out the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_

(The above is another change. This will be posted at the end of each chapter, and yes, I do need to space out the address, otherwise it will be edited out by the site.)

Please review.


	3. Sunlight's Shadow

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47_

**_ Part One  
The Shadow of Death_**

"Yesterday, a shaft of light cut into the darkness..."  
John F. Kennedy **__**

Chapter Two  
Sunlight's Shadow 

Harry sat now at the kitchen table of number four, Privet Drive, and he wondered how he had gotten there.

He stood and furrowed his brow. Had he not just been in the twins' room at the Burrow? How on earth was he back at Privet Drive?

All of a sudden, Dudley came charging into the room like he always did (well, always did when he was going for the fridge) and Harry opened his mouth to speak—but he was silenced when Dudley did not even look at him as he went by. Harry was used to being ignored by the Dursleys, but not quite so much as this.

Harry spoke now: "Dudley?"

Dudley still did not look up. The large boy grinned as he flung open the refrigerator door, a manic glint in his eyes.

Harry walked over to him, confused, and waved his arm in front of Dudley's face—nope, still no reaction. It was as if Harry wasn't even there...the feeling was quite familiar, actually.

Harry had felt this feeling three times before—on each of his visits into a Pensieve, and in his second year when he was taken into Riddle's diary. Harry could see the people around him, but they could not see Harry.

He wasn't really there—or at least...that's what Harry suspected.

"Dudley!" admonished Aunt Petunia distractedly, walking into the room. "You know you're on a diet, popkin..." She did not protest further, but instead walked over to the sink and peered out the window above it. "I heard something was funny up at number eight..." she said, and Dudley clearly could not hear her; his head was fully in the fridge, and Harry had a feeling he'd got it stuck. Harry's theory was confirmed when Dudley started to shake roughly to get himself free.

"Perhaps she's finally walked out on that rotted husband of hers...could have caused a big scene..." continued Petunia, reaching her neck as long as it could go.

Harry wondered again as to why he was here. Even if he wasn't really _here_, he was still there, and he must have gotten there somehow. He remembered suddenly that Petunia was at the Burrow, in bed, and that this must have happened hours, if not days ago.

Yesterday, perhaps.

Harry walked over to his aunt, whose head was up right by the window, looking distinctly giraffe-like. Harry followed her gaze, out the window, and thought that surely she couldn't see anything from here; the view was completely blocked by number six.

He was about to sit back down, when he felt a very odd feeling, one that was distant...yes, distantly familiar. But he thought it should have felt more familiar. Did that make any sense? No, he didn't think so...

This feeling intensified slowly and painfully inside of Harry. He found himself walking quite briskly—really almost running—towards the front door. The doorknob would not open at first, and Harry felt a pain in the back of his head that he could not place. Harry struggled with the doorknob for another minute before backing up slightly, and charging the door with his elbow.

Why did he do that?

Harry, who had too late anticipated a sharp pain in his arm, was quite surprised when the door opened quite easily, and he could not remember if he had felt it against his shoulder or not.

Instead of the familiar sight of Privet Drive, Harry found himself surrounded by light, by white mist, or fog, or something like it. He could see only three or so feet in front of him, and as he began to walk, this three feet came with him.

Harry suddenly felt a great need to reach the end of this mist—perhaps claustrophobia, but Harry had never felt that before. No—he simply had to find out what was at the end of it.

He kept walking, kept walking, kept walking until his feet felt sore, and just as he thought the mist would never end, it came to an abrupt—

—stop.

Harry looked back round; the mist was right there, as if an invisible wall was keeping it in place. It stood perfectly vertical, expanding to the left and right for what seemed like miles. It towered above him, extending high into the sky.

A moment ago, when Harry had been in the mist, there had been no end in sight—and yet here it stopped. Harry looked forward once again, and saw that he stood now on Grimmauld Place, just in front of number twelve.

Harry wondered what he was doing there.

Harry noticed now that it was inexplicably bright on this street, and a particular shaft of sunlight fell on the doorstep of number twelve. Harry thought it looked out of place—that house always had had a...dark air about it, and the brightness was just...wrong.

Harry took a step, to move closer to the house, (and to Sirius within it, for surely he was in there), but as soon as his foot touched the pavement, Harry found himself on Privet Drive once again, with the feeling inside of him intensified considerably.

Harry found himself running. Running down the street, right down the middle of the road, not caring to move to the sidewalk. He ran full out, and he didn't know why. Petunia had been wrong—something was wrong, yes, but not at number eight. It was further up, much further. Harry kept his eyes on the pavement in front of him as he ran, not looking up, and he realised it would be quite horrible if a car decided to come down this street now. But he didn't stop, or move, or anything.

Harry kept running, kept running, kept running until his knees felt as if they were about to unhinge themselves. He slowed and eventually stopped right at the end of Privet Drive, and finally looked up. The sight that greeted him he could only identify with one past experience, but that paled in comparison just the same.

Swarming above Harry, in front of him, and to the sides, were what seemed innumerable Dementors. Thousands, he thought, but surely that number was crazy? There couldn't be a _thousand_ Dementors—there hadn't been nearly that many at the end of his third year...but then, the Dementors had not revolted yet, had they?

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the sight, and without another thought he began to run right back the other way.

The mist was back, but only the tail end of it, apparently, for Harry was in front of number twelve, Grimmauld Place before he knew it.

He kept running, however, up to the door and right through it. But had it been open?

The door slammed behind Harry, and Sirius's mother began screaming and screeching, but Harry could not hear the words—in fact, when he turned to the painting, it wasn't Mrs Black at all, but Aunt Petunia, in the kitchen of number four Privet Drive, and Harry was sitting in the chair once again, as he had been before everything had started, just watching.

Harry began to feel quite dizzy from all this jumping around.

Petunia was screaming and screeching because the Dementors were coming, she could see them out the window, and Harry thought for a moment that it was odd that she could see them—the house was in the way, he had seen it before—but that wasn't important.

"Diddy! Vernon! We've got to—" Petunia finally said, after a long while of inarticulate screeches.

"We don't have to do anything," said Uncle Vernon, and Harry spun round to see that Vernon was at the table, sipping his tea—it struck Harry as vaguely odd that the man wore a chicken suit, "because Potter isn't here. Everything is perfectly normal, thank you very much, and nothing could possibly be wrong. _Bwa-bwaaak!_"

Harry blinked. Had his uncle just...clucked?

"But the Dementors are coming!" shouted Petunia in a panic, and Dudley suddenly oinked in fear.

Oinked in fear?

"_Snnort...snonort_...not those things, _oink!_" said Dudley, dressed quite handsomely as a large pink pig.

Harry blinked several times. Something had to be wrong with his eyes—why would his uncle and cousin be dressed as farm animals? It made even less sense than some of the things he'd heard out of Luna Lovegood's mouth, and that was saying something.

"The dementoid-whatsits?" said Vernon. "No, they only came for the boy. We're perfectly safe." Vernon ruffled his feathers.

"But they're right _there!_" said Petunia, pointing at the window, and as Harry looked out he did saw the Dementors, yes, but he was suddenly at Hogwarts by the lake, and _as they reached the lakeshore, they saw why — Sirius had turned back into a man. He was crouched on all fours, his hands over his head._

"Nooo,"_ he moaned. _"Noooo...please..."

And then Harry saw them. Dementors, at least a hundred of them, gliding in a black mass around the lake towards them. He spun around, the familiar, icy cold penetrating his insides, fog starting to obscure his vision; more were appearing out of the darkness on every side; they were encircling them...

"Hermione, think of something happy!" Harry yelled, raising his wand, blinking furiously to try and clear his vision, shaking his head to rid it of the faint screaming that had started inside it.

I'm going to live with my godfather. I'm leaving the Dursleys.

And it was almost true—for though he wasn't going to _live_ with his godfather, Harry was no longer at Privet Drive; he was back at Grimmauld Place, right inside the door.

"Harry," said Sirius, standing in the shadows, hands up over his eyes. "Would you mind shutting the door? It's _bright_ out there. I can't stand the sunshine, sometimes...guess I got used to the dark, you know?" He grinned at Harry as the latter shut the door, but Harry suddenly remembered the door slamming shut. How had it opened again? Had someone else come in?

Sirius grinned again and put an arm round Harry's shoulders. "That's better, isn't it? Now, what brings you here? I thought you were at the Burrow."

"So did I," said Harry, and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"Something wrong?" Sirius asked. "Hey, let's go down to the kitchen, eh? You must be starved from all that running." He smirked. "I should know, right?"

"Sure," said Harry, relieved that something seemed right at last. Sirius was right; he was just _right._ Everything had felt wrong since he'd first been in the kitchen of Privet Drive, but now everything was back to normal. Sirius could help him figure out what had happened...how he'd gotten here, what he was supposed to do...

Yes, Sirius could help him.

And so Sirius led Harry down to the basement kitchen. Harry sat down at the table, and Sirius asked, "What do you want to eat? I'm quite the cook, you know—can make anything you want, except for...Chinese, French, Indonesian, Japanese...all sorts of others...and Italian. I've never had any luck with those. Especially Italian."

Harry laughed. It felt good to laugh, and the grin on Sirius's face, seeing Harry laugh, was just...it seemed to be pure bliss.

Harry missed Sirius. To actually see him in person, that is; not through a fire, not through a mirror. To actually know he was _right there_, tangible and real. For the first time in what seemed to have been hours, Harry's head wasn't spinning.

"So what's it gonna be?" Sirius asked. "I don't have all day, you know."

"How 'bout just cereal?" said Harry. "Cereal's fine."

"Cereal it is then," said Sirius. "I've always liked cereal...especially the name: 'cereal.' Just sounds great, doesn't it? Has such a ring to it."

And Harry laughed again. It seemed he'd laugh at anything today, and he liked that. It had been so long since he'd been able to just _laugh_, and...it had been so long since a lot of things, hadn't it?

"So," said Sirius, "how are you and Ginny doing? Any good snogging lately?"

Harry turned bright red, as scarlet as blood (which, he figured, was what was making his face red). "How can you say that like that?" he wondered out loud. He shook his head. "I could never just _say_ that. Say Ron had a girlfriend—I could never just _say that _to him—to anyone."

"Your father could," said Sirius, sounding a bit wistful. "Oh, he'd say stuff like that all the time—you think _I'm _funny? (Apparently very much so, today.) Besides, you're not answering the question."

Sirius put down a bowl and spoon, and opened several cabinets in search of the cereal.

"Do you really expect me to answer that?" said Harry very quietly, and Sirius shook his head in laughter.

"Of course not—but, since you didn't just say '_No way!_', I'll assume you _have_ had some good snogging lately." And Harry, if possible, turned even redder.

"You know, I miss _real_ cereal," said Sirius. "When Arthur was here for so long, he brought all these Muggle ones, and I haven't had any real Wizard cereal since before...well, you know. Seriously, though—what kind of cereals are these?" Sirius took one out after another, to reveal brightly coloured cartoon boxes. "Trix? Count Chocula? Lucky Charms? That doesn't even _look_ like a leprechaun..."

"I'll take the Lucky Charms," said Harry. "I could use some of them nowadays."

"Sure," said Sirius. "Whatever you say."

Sirius now opened the refrigerator—Harry had just noticed that there _was _a refrigerator. which looked slightly out of place—for the milk, and Harry saw a blood-red substance inside it, some sort of potion.

"What's that?" Harry asked, pointing.

"What's what?"

"The red stuff."

"Oh, that—" Sirius cleared his throat, handing the milk to Harry. "Just some medicine, I—"

"Medicine?" Harry said. "What are you taking medicine for?"

"Nothing, nothing serious," said Sirius, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it."

Harry watched his godfather suspiciously while he ate his cereal, and he didn't actually taste it at all; not even the marshmallows.

"You done?" said Sirius when Harry had eaten the last marshmallow from the now-scented milk. Harry nodded and Sirius took the bowl from in front of him, and walked behind Harry to put it in the sink.

In another moment, Harry noticed the silence. He could not hear Sirius at all, not his footsteps, not his voice, not even his breathing. He turned round—Sirius wasn't there, he was gone, he had disappeared.

Vanished.

Harry stood, and lo! he was in Privet Drive again, standing by the kitchen table. Petunia was screaming, and two Dementors were hovering over Vernon and Dudley, both of whom were out of their costumes. Just as both lowered their hoods, a great _bang!_ sounded and a great scarlet bird appeared by Petunia. Somehow, it seemed, she knew what she had to do; she grabbed hold of the tail feathers, and appeared to steel herself.

Quickly, Harry moved over and grabbed the tail feathers himself, and in a moment both of them were gone, reappearing in the front lawn of the Burrow. Petunia ran for the door, screaming, and Harry watched her go.

He was inside the Burrow now, laying down on a bed—was it Ginny's?—as an annoying song blasted in his ear. He stood, ran down the stairs, and flung open the front door, and—

—he was in Grimmauld Place, flinging open _that_ front door. Standing on the doorstep was Bellatrix Lestrange, and she was grinning evilly. In her hands was a large bucket of water, which she now tossed atop Harry, who began to melt, slowly and painfully, bit by bit.

"I'm melting! I'm melting!" he couldn't help but say, and there was an odd, grim humour in the words, even as he became nothing more than a puddle.

"FILTHY HALF-BLOODS! FOULING MY BEAUTIFUL CARPETS WITH THEIR GOO!" screamed Mrs Black's portrait.

"Shut up!" said Sirius, stepping over Harry and peering down at him with an appraising look. "Well," he said, "I've always liked the word 'goo', haven't you?"

Harry, who somehow could still see, now saw the grinning Bellatrix Lestrange push Sirius out the door. He fell in a graceful arc, into the unnaturally bright sunlight, and was gone, he had disappeared.

Vanished.

And Bellatrix Lestrange laughed, laughed her evil laugh, before kneeling down by Harry and scooping him up into a glass jar. She sealed the jar, and grinned at Harry's swirling form.

"My Master will be pleased," she said to him, and she tucked him into her robes, and his eyes snapped open.

**_ Next Chapter_**

"But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on the deck from below,  
as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff,  
where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the east pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstone—'thruff-steans' or  
'through-stones,' as they call them in the Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away,  
it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight. "  
Bram Stoker ****

Coming Soon 

Intrigued by Yesterday? Check out the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_

Please review.


	4. Missing Pieces

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _

**_ Part One  
The Shadow of Death_**

"But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on the  
deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on  
the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the  
east pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstone—'thruff-steans' or 'through-stones,' as they  
call them in the Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen  
away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the  
searchlight. "  
Bram Stoker

**_ Chapter Three  
Missing Pieces _**

The darkness of the night had vanished before she had progressed half way down the street, so careful and planned were her movements. She did not take a step without the care of a thousand Aurors.

Step—stop.

Now the haze of an overcast morning hung low over the unnaturally bright day, a paradox that she did not care to attempt to comprehend. She took a breath.

Step—stop.

The end had begun now, and this was the part she was to play: a starring role, as promised by her master. A starring role in a production for the ages, that's what this would be.

A breath.

Step—stop.

She could see it now, the house of her fathers. Just there, in the distance, beyond this grim old haze.

Her eyelids fluttered closed — a moment of silent meditation, just a moment, the most vague of all measurements. A breath — with which she could smell it, smell her dreams, her ambitions, her desires.

Her triumph.

Step—stop.

——

Harry's eyes opened, and he found he was no longer goo. He was himself again, fully lifelike, and he was leaning uncomfortably against the wall of the hallway, outside the twins' room.

_At the Burrow,_ he thought. _I'm back at the Burrow._

He stood, a crick in his back, and reached for the doorknob of the twins' room. His hand, inches away, pulled back in pain, his palm on fire yet not truly burned.

What the...?

He held his hand in front of his face, and there were no burn marks. Had he imagined it? It felt far too real for that...but it had also felt very real to be goo, and that had only been some sort of dream.

Hang on...how did I...?

—get out in the hallway. Indeed, how had he? The last Harry remembered, he had been in the twins' room with Ginny, and Aunt Petunia. When had he gotten out here, onto the floor?

Harry made to try the doorknob again, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned round and headed for the stairs.

"Harry, I was just looking for you," said Albus Dumbledore, stepping just in front of Harry as he came to the foot of the stairs, (nearly causing Harry to walk into him). Harry did a bit of a double take, having not expected the headmaster to be at the Burrow—in fact, Harry had never seen him in the Burrow, and he looked quite out of place.

But Harry had a hard time believing that Dumbledore could have been looking very long.

"You were?" said Harry, and Dumbledore nodded, gesturing for Harry to walk with him.

"Walk with me, Harry."

Harry did, somewhat hesitantly—and then he wondered why he was hesitant about it. It was Dumbledore, after all.

"How is your aunt, Harry?" said Dumbledore. "I came as soon as I heard."

"Asleep, still, last time I saw her," said Harry.

"And how are you?" said Dumbledore, looking at him deeply. They had come to the kitchen, and sat down at the table, Harry opposite Dumbledore. "How have you been?"

"I've been—" and Harry was going to say 'fine' but something stopped him—something deep inside him told him not to say he was all right, to _actually _tell Dumbledore what was going on for once.

Perhaps it was something he ate.

"Actually," Harry said, "I had this weird dream—"

——

Step—stop.

There, there it was...near enough practically to touch it. But no, she couldn't—no, she must not get caught up in the moment of triumph...at least not until she had _truly _triumphed over _him._

She did not know how her master had found a way round the Fidelius Charm, but she knew he must have—otherwise, how could she see the house, the house that was just there before her nose?

Step—stop.

It did not matter—all that mattered was that he had done it, and now _she_ could do it, could do what she needed to do. Could force the king into the far corner of the board, so that it is only a matter of time before...

Step—stop.

...checkmate.

**_

——

_**

"Dream?" said Dumbledore. "A vision, do you mean? Or just a...dream?"

"I don't really know," said Harry. "It was just very strange."

"Well, would you explain it to me, please?"

"Yeah...," said Harry, and he did so. He told of the Dursleys and their costumes, of the Dementors, of the unending fog and its end as well—of Grimmauld Place, of the sunlight, of the breakfast cereal, and finally of the end: Sirius's disappearance, and his own transformation into _goo_.

This explanation took a great deal of time, for it takes much longer to explain a dream—or _attempt to, _anyway, for Harry was sure he had jumbled it up terribly—than it takes to dream the dream itself.

When Harry was quite sure he had told of everything — though he was actually wrong about that — he waited for Dumbledore to comment, to explain, to inquire.

"Interesting," said Dumbledore, and somehow Harry had known that that would be all he would say—of _course_, that was all he would say—when did Dumbledore explain anything to Harry? Except...well, the end of last year was an exception, but still...

"Interesting," said Dumbledore again, and Harry thought that maybe the headmaster would elaborate after all.

"Harry, are you sure you've told me _everything_ about this...dream? Absolutely everything?"

"Yes," said Harry—again, he was quite wrong about that.

Dumbledore stood, and pulled out his wand. "I shall return to you soon, Harry," he said, but—

Suddenly, Harry felt something—vaguely painful—on the back of his head—he spun round, but no one was there, nothing was there. What had it been? An odd feeling, that was all he knew...but...it left him feeling unsure about something.

"I don't know," said Harry now, and Dumbledore stopped as he was about to Apparate away.

"Don't know what?" he said curiously.

"I don't...maybe I didn't tell you everything..."

"You're _not_ sure?" said Dumbledore, and Harry felt as though he had lied to the headmaster, even though that was hardly what happened at all—he felt it nonetheless.

"No," said Harry, and Dumbledore raised his wand once again.

"Interesting."

——

One final time, and she was there:

Step—stop.

——

"Hey," said Ron, walking into the kitchen of the Burrow. He yawned. "I'm tired. Hardly slept at all last night..."

He sat down where Dumbledore had been. "How've you been?" Ron said. "You haven't really said much this summer. Of course, you haven't yelled much either, and that's always good."

Harry realised he _hadn't _been talking very much. But...what did he have to talk about, anyway?

He was about to say so, but at that moment an owl swooped into the kitchen; it was one that Harry had never seen before, though it seemed Ron had.

The owl landed on the table in front of Ron, let him remove an envelope from its leg, and then flew away once again.

"Who's it from?" Harry asked idly. Ron hadn't made a move to open the letter.

"Luna," said Ron, shaking his head slightly, looking at some point behind Harry. "She's been sending them every day—sometimes more than one. I reckon she's trying to break some sort of record for the most letters sent to one person in a single summer."

"Luna?" said Harry. He paused for a moment. "Since when does Luna send you letters? I mean, until the end of last term, you didn't even seem to like her all that much."

"Yeah," said Ron. He was quiet for a while, not looking at Harry. "I know."

Silence.

"You gonna open it?" Harry said, indicating the letter.

"Oh, no," said Ron. "They're all the same. You see, she wants to _send _a lot of letters—but I don't think she can think of anything to write in all of them. _That,_" — now he did tear open the letter, and unfold the paper; he handed it to Harry — "is why they're all blank."

Harry snorted. "Well, that's Luna for you. Maybe she's just sending you paper to write her back with."

"Yeah, I guess." Ron took back the paper and just looked at it for a while, as if wondering something about it. Then he shook his head, and stuffed it back into the envelope.

"So," said Ron, "how's your aunt doing?"

"OK, I guess," said Harry. "She hasn't woken up."

"That's always good," said Ron. "But do you have any idea how she got here?"

Harry considered explaining, but thought better of it: he had just told Dumbledore everything, and he didn't feel like explaining it all again to Ron. Instead, he offered the shortest reply he could think of:

"Dementors."

Ron furrowed his brow at this, perhaps wondering how Dementors had taken Petunia to the Burrow, and was about to comment further, when Harry stood and walked out of the kitchen. He didn't feel like talking any more.

"Hello, Harry," said Dumbledore, once again appearing in front of Harry, but now holding a large stone basin. He smiled a weak smile that did not quite reach his eyes, and walked with the bowl back into the kitchen. Harry followed, thinking that his departure had been rather useless.

"Dumbledore?" said Ron, taken aback. "What are you doing here?"

"That's _Professor _Dumbledore," said a voice from the doorway, and it turned out to be Mrs Weasley, looking at her son sternly. Harry thought that perhaps she had a sixth sense to tell when people were not addressing their elders with proper respect.

"Sorry, Professor," said Ron. "But...when did you get here?"

"I just arrived, Mr Weasley," said Dumbledore. "But then again, I just left."

Ron blinked, but did not try to decipher the headmaster's words any further.

"You have used the Pensieve once before, Harry," said Dumbledore, and his words seemed rather hurried. "You know what to do."

It took Harry a moment to recall _when_ he had used the Pensieve before; the event did not particularly stand out in his recollection of the end of term. But yes, he had used it, used it to siphon the vision he'd had of Voldemort and Hermione, in the Riddle House...what had that been about, anyway? He couldn't remember...

He did, however, remember what to do. He placed the tip of his wand to his temple, only to be interrupted by Ron.

"But we're not supposed to use magic outside school," he said. "Remember last year? You'll be expelled."

Harry wondered for a moment if it was indeed Ron who was speaking—it certainly didn't sound like him.

"Do not worry, Mr Weasley," said Dumbledore. "The Ministry will know nothing of this; and even if they did, this is far too important. Proceed, Harry."

Harry did. He concentrated on his dream, replayed it in his mind, and though he still felt there was something he could not remember, he felt that it would show itself in the Pensieve, despite his not recalling it.

The silvery substance drooped from the end of the wand as Harry pulled it away — he realised, with a shock, that it was not his wand at all; he had forgotten. It was Voldemort's. And yet it felt so _right_, so _natural..._and that fact in itself felt so wrong.

Harry _flicked_ his wrist over the Pensieve now, and the strand of silver fell within its depths, disappearing without so much as a splash. In a moment, the swirling image of the Dursleys' kitchen appeared, though it too soon faded.

"Go ahead, Harry," said Dumbledore now. "Follow it. Find the missing piece."

Harry looked around a moment, glanced at the faces of those around him. Ron looked utterly confused. Mrs Weasley probably didn't comprehend much more than her son, though she did not show it quite so clearly. And Dumbledore's face was as calm as ever; Harry could only vaguely see the sense of urgency writ upon it.

Taking a breath, Harry swirled Voldemort's wand round the Pensieve, and dipped his face into the swirling depths. This missing piece, he knew, _had to be found._

——

Bellatrix' hand hesitantly spread itself upon the door, the wood cool beneath her palm and fingers. Her other hand reached for the knob, turning it slowly and quietly until a faint _click _greeted her.

The door opened inward, and she found herself inside the house for the first time in years—since long before her trip to Azkaban. It amazed her, the simplicity of it all. How on earth had her master done this, breached the security of this house?

Once again, it did not matter; all that mattered was that he _had_. And she _was here._

Now all she had to do was find _him_. Take _him._ For real, this time. Potter was crumbling already. He did not know of even the tiniest bit of the plot, the _plots_ that were all coming together to destroy him. All coming together _now_, beginning _now_, ending _then. _Ending when it all had to end.

He had no idea.

Back to _him,_ back to her cousin, back to _Sirius_. Where could he be? Where could she find him in this place?

She would try the kitchen first, yes, of course that was the only place he had stayed when they were children. He didn't care about any of the other goings-on of the house; no, he just liked the food, that was him.

On the way down, a mirror hung upon the wall, and there she stopped, a stair creaking precariously as she did so. She turned to look at her reflection, and she noticed for the first time in years, noticed the resemblance between herself and those depicted in the paintings...the few that still survived in this place, at least. She was a Black, just as he was. _More _than he was. And it made her wonder.

She had not known him, known her cousin, known _Sirius_ since childhood. Not _really_ known him. She had never liked him, of course, but they had seen each other often enough.

They were _family_, of course.

But she had not known him in decades...almost thirty years, she would wager. And this, too, made her wonder...

Had he become one of _them?_

Regulus had been. That had become so very obvious, at the end. But Sirius...had she ever seen him in—

"Hello, 'Trix. Long time no see."

Bellatrix spun around and found herself face to face with _him, _with her cousin, with _Sirius_. She had been too absorbed in the mirror, at the reflections of the stairwell, too notice him coming, to see him even through her peripheral vision. A foolish mistake.

She smirked grimly at him, wand raised to his neck before he could blink. "I'd say the same, but I've seen you too oft in my dreams; seen _this_ in my dreams, seen your end in my dreams."

"You always had a way with words," he said, glancing disdainfully at the mirror before doing the last thing Bellatrix had expected, and the first thing that she should have:

He was a great black dog in a moment, and had bowled her down the stairs, into the kitchen. Another foolish mistake: why had she stopped on the stairs, of all places?

They rolled and rolled, the dog finally pining her to the floor of the basement kitchen. He growled at her, sniffing scornfully, and raised a paw to claw at her face—he never got the chance, however, as she had blasted him back against the wall with her wand.

"Ha!" she cried, and her wand was trained on him once again. "I've got you now, Black!"

It pained her slightly to address him by her own name; but what was she to call him? Cuz?

The dog barked mockingly and bounced back up the stairs, clearly enjoying itself. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes as she chased it, frustrated by his nonchalance. Did he not realise what she intended to do?

Sirius had the advantage on her at the moment, knowing the house better than the back of his paw. He lost his stride slightly at the top of the stairs, paws sliding him into the wall. A loud shriek went off as Bellatrix reached the top. He had already bounded away.

"TRAITOROUS BEAST!" cried the painting of Bellatrix' aunt. The witch ran by it without a glance, though the painting had apparently noticed her: "GO GET HIM, MY PRETTY! GET THAT LITTLE DOG, YOU!"

Bellatrix chased Sirius up the stairs now, and when she reached the landing she caught sight of a swishing black tail turning a corner. She sent a curse towards it, but the tail had disappeared. Bellatrix groaned in frustration.

It struck Bellatrix as ironic that after all the work she had gone through—all the stealth and sneaking through streets—she would have to resort to a wild dog chase.

"Slow down, you son of a bitch!" Bellatrix spit after the dog, not intending the literal meaning.

"HEY, YOU WATCH YOUR MOUTH!" shouted the painting downstairs.

Suddenly, as Bellatrix rounded into the room she had seen the tail swish into, she found herself in a death grip. Her wand clattered to the floor, and she glanced upward to see that it was Sirius's hand on her mouth, arm round her neck, keeping her in place. Not that there had been any doubt.

"Gotcha," he said, smirking. "Now you better not struggle—I'm getting Dumbledore down here in a second, and you know what he can do to you—"

Bellatrix did know, and it terrified her. She could not let Dumbledore catch her. Anyone but Dumbledore. And she did the first thing she thought of to free herself, to prevent her capture by the only one her master had ever feared—

She bit down on Sirius's hand, and she would never regret anything more in her life.

She knew it was a mistake the moment she'd done it, but there was nothing to do about it now; his blood seeped into her mouth, invading her like a virus, and his bark-like scream filled the air. She _was_ free;he _had _let go. But it came at such a terrible price...for she knew in a moment that he _had _become one of them, just as his _dear _brother had. He _was _one of them, and now so was she.

And now there was nothing else to do. She had to finish him, though it would not be how she had planned—she could not deliver him to the Dark Lord, no, not anymore. But there was a window, stained-glass, just there, and—

Without another thought, Bellatrix ran at him, at her cousin, at _Sirius_, with all of her might, and he lost his balance completely. The glass shattered as he fell through it, his body a graceful arc as it fell into the sunlight.

He was gone before he could hit the ground.

**_ Next Chapter_**

"How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot!  
The world forgetting, by the world forgot:  
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!  
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd".  
Alexander Pope ****

Coming Soon 

Intrigued by Yesterday? Check out the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_

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	5. Crying Wolf

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _

**_ Part One  
The Shadow of Death_**

"How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot!  
The world forgetting, by the world forgot:  
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!  
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd".  
Alexander Pope

**_ Chapter Four  
Crying Wolf _**

_Harry sat now at the kitchen table of number four, Privet Drive, and he wondered how he had gotten there._

Harry also sat opposite himself, at the kitchen table, though _he _knew how he had gotten there. He had entered the Pensieve, and now he was watching his own dream. It was a bit like an out-of-body experience, he reckoned; for he, not really there, saw himself, also not really there, _right there, _living and breathing or so it would seem.

He saw himself, and also saw that it was not truly him: the image was basically the same, the image that Harry thought of when he thought of how he looked. But if he were to look in a mirror, or at a photograph of himself, he would see a different person. Essentially, Harry apparently did not think of himself exactly how he was—but who does?

Harry watched himself stand, and furrow his brow, and in another moment Dudley came charging into the room, heading for the refrigerator. Harry saw himself open his mouth. hesitate, and then say: "Dudley?"

Dudley did not look up. The large boy grinned as he flung open the refrigerator door, a manic glint in his eyes.

Harry watched himself walk over to Dudley and wave an arm in front of the large boy's face. But, watching this, he knew that the missing piece was not here, not yet. It would not be for a long while, the thing that he could not recall. And so Harry found himself wishing that he could skip over this part, sort of fast-forwards to the interesting part of the dream, the important part.

As it would happen, his wish was fulfilled: the kitchen faded into swirling darkness. Harry could only see himself—his current self, not the one of his dream. When the world returned, however, Harry was not in his dream, no, not in the _memory _of his dream. He was in a different memory.

The Dark Lord sat, in his high backed chair, facing the fire. Nagini was curled around his feet, warming her head.

Harry was in the Riddle House, and it took him a moment to place the memory—but it was simple enough to place. This was the other memory he had stored in the Pensieve. At the end of term.

_"How _nice_ it is to meet you at last, Miss Granger," Voldemort said to the girl in the doorway. He couldn't see her of course, but Lord Voldemort hadn't needed to see someone enter a room for quite a while. He could sense her. Smell her. Feel her. Her very presence invaded his mind, announcing her arrival._

Harry looked round to see Hermione, looking dreadfully sick. Her face was green, and Harry didn't blame her; this was her first glance of the Dark Lord, after all, and he—it, practically—was a nauseating sight.

_"Can't say the same," came Hermione's voice, "Voldemort."_

_"Well," he said, "it's taken long enough for _Dumbledore_ to convince someone to call me by that name."_

_"He didn't. Harry did. Without even trying to."_

_Voldemort could smell the bile rising in her throat. She would vomit soon, if she wasn't careful..._

Fade to black.

Another memory. This one was not his, not Harry's.

It was Snape's, Harry knew in an instant, seeing the small gathering of Death Eaters around the room. Harry knew the room, though he had only seen it briefly, at the end of term. When he had gone to rescue Sirius. Just before the bell jar fell.

An arch stood in the centre of the room, the centre of the..._amphitheatre, _yes, that was what it was called. The arch was at the bottom, raised upon a...upon a _dais, _that was it. Hung from the arch was a tattered old curtain, a tattered old _veil..._and that veil seemed to sway slightly in the still room, disturbed not by the wind but by something much more complicated.

Harry was standing on the dais, though he was sure that a moment ago he had been overlooking the room from above. Next to him was Snape, looking much younger (though a great deal older than when Harry had first ventured into the Potions Master's past). Next to Snape were two young Death Eaters that Harry had never seen before—he would not have thought of them as Death Eaters, if not for the robes that they wore and the masks that they held.

"_Please_...please no...don't do this..."

Harry stepped around the dais, moving more gracefully than he ordinarily did. He now saw that between the two unknown Death Eaters, a third Death Eater was held. This one was smaller, or at least was hunched over, curled up in as much of a foetal position as is possible when one is standing.

This man had black hair and looked extremely familiar—in fact, if Harry did not know that Sirius had never been a Death Eater, he would have mistaken the man for his own godfather.

But no—he only _looked _like Sirius. He did not have at all the same disposition, the same..._way_ about him. This man appeared much weaker than Sirius—even when Sirius had been fresh out of Azkaban.

This was Regulus Black—Sirius's brother.

"_Please_," Regulus begged again. "You _don't have to do this..._"

Snape suddenly lunged for the man, and threw him against one of the sides of the archway. Regulus recoiled once he collided, and slid to the floor in pain. Snape kneeled down and whispered to him with a sneer. Harry crouched down to listen.

"I _do _have to do this," Snape said. "But I also _want _to do this. I want to do this _very, very much. _My only regret is that I must settle for _you,_ when your dear big brother would be so much more satisfying..."

"Sirius?" murmured Regulus. "Why...why do want to kill him?"

Snape snarled and spoke: "Because _he exists,_ mainly. He made my life hell for seven years and tried to kill me to boot. I only wish that he cared about you enough to actually be pained to hear that I killed you."

Harry imagined it was the nonchalance with which Snape spoke of Regulus's death that made the younger man begin to sob openly. He put his head into his lap and cried. Snape looked down at him disdainfully, and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Let's get to it then," he said. He got a secure hold on Regulus's shoulders and walked him over in front of the archway...in front of the_ veil._ "Nighty-night."

And with that, Snape shoved Regulus through—in a last ditch effort, Regulus snapped out at him with his teeth, but came nowhere near to biting Snape. Harry was taken aback to see that his bicuspids were much longer than they had been only a moment before, making him look much like a vampire from some old horror film—or, at least, making his _mouth _look like that of a vampire from some old horror film. The rest of him looked normal enough, apart from a rather pale complexion, like Sirius's.

But Harry hardly had time to even notice the oddness of Regulus's teeth—for, quite simply, they weren't there to notice anymore. Neither was the rest of Regulus, for he had completely disappeared as he had been pushed through the curtain, through the _veil._ Harry had expected that he would come out the other side, of course he had, what was he supposed to expect?

"Let's go," said Snape, wiping his hands on his robes, and placing his Death Eater mask over his face. "We're finished here."

So was Harry, apparently, for the scene had faded away, faded to black, and _Harry found himself on Privet Drive once again, with the feeling inside of him intensified considerably._

Harry saw himself, or what he supposed was himself. It was more like a vague shape that would look like him if he didn't have his glasses on and was looking from a great distance, perhaps from above.

He saw himself running, though he did not see himself _start _to run. But now he was running as well, running to catch up with himself.

Harry kept running, kept running, kept running until his knees felt as if they were about to unhinge themselves.

Harry and Harry's dream self eventually came to a stop, but only when they came to see a sight that Harry had not wished to see ever again, let alone within hours of his first viewing.

Swarming above Harry, in front of him, and to the sides, were what seemed innumerable Dementors. Thousands, he thought, but surely that number was crazy? There couldn't be a thousand Dementors—there hadn't been nearly that many at the end of his third year...but then, the Dementors had not revolted yet, had they?

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the sight, and without another thought he began to run right back the other way.

Harry struggled to keep up with himself, and he reckoned that you could run much faster in dreams than in real life—of course, the opposite was also true. Many times, you can never run _quite fast enough_ in a dream, and that feeling is simply horrible.

The scene faded again now, just as Harry neared his self.

"Why don't you come over here, like a nice little Gryffindor, and we can have a nice chat," the Dark Lord asked.

"I'd pr-prefer not to."

She held the vomit down. Impressive.

"Fine then."

The Dark Lord stood, his snake uncoiling itself from his feet. He turned, to see the girl struggling to keep still. To stop herself from shaking.

Granger was about a foot shorter than him. He towered above her, and she kept her gaze down.

Harry looked upon the scene and wondered why the Pensieve had decided to put him into the memories it had—he had entered for the dream and the dream alone, and he had gotten not only this other memory, this ghost from the past, so to speak, but also Snape's—the one with Regulus. This was the first time Harry had ever stopped to wonder _why _the Pensieve showed what it did, when it did, to whom it did.

This subject only became more mystifying as the scene faded once again. Quite frankly, Harry was getting sick of all the jumping around he'd been doing today.

It was dark, now, so dark that the fade from black was hardly perceptible. Harry thought that it probably would have been cold, too, if he could feel.

Harry was on Hogwarts grounds, he noticed after a moment. Out by the Whomping Willow.

Harry wondered when he was.

His question was answered as he noticed the boy standing in front of him—the darkness, not only of Harry's surroundings but of the boy himself, prevented Harry seeing him.

It only took a moment longer for Harry to identify the boy as Snape. He idly wondered what the Potions Master would think if he found out that Harry had _again _delved into the memories that he had so not wanted him to see. And, thinking this, Harry also thought that it probably wasn't the greatest idea in the world for people to share a Pensieve. It was probably like sharing a toothbrush or something.

"C'mon... c'mon...," Snape muttered to himself, and Harry wondered what he was waiting for. Then he saw them.

Sirius led the way, and Harry thought that he was perhaps attempting to sneak, but failing miserably. Behind him was Harry's father, James, and Lupin was third, looking rather sick. Trailing behind was Wormtail—just like always.

Harry's eyes widened as he saw the look in Snape's eyes as _he _saw the procession of Gryffindors.

This was _that night._

"Where are you going, I wonder?" Snape muttered to himself, and Harry noticed that Snape was much better at blending in than the Marauders were. After all, he was standing right in the open—albeit in the darkness—and the Gryffindors had not noticed him.

Had they?

Because suddenly Harry noticed Sirius sending exaggerated looks in all directions _except_ towards Snape (and Harry, but of course he wouldn't be looking at _him_ anyway).

"Hurry up, Wormtail," said James, beckoning to the lagging friend. Wormtail caught up with the group just as they had reached the Whomping Willow—outside of its reach, more like.

Wormtail turned into his rat-form, and scuttled towards the knot on the tree that froze it. When the branches halted, Snape moved forwards, slowly and surely.

"Go ahead in, Moony," said Sirius. "We'll catch up."

Lupin nodded, glancing over his shoulder to where the moon would be rising any moment now. He disappeared beneath the tree.

"Hey Padfoot, look at that!" James was pointing up towards the school, and Sirius looked up to see what he was on about.

"What?"

"_Evans._"

And now Harry saw what his father was pointing at—streaking through the sky by the school was Harry's mother, Lily, moving so quickly in the dark that it was a wonder James had noticed at all.

"I thought she hated flying," said Sirius, sounding perplexed yet amused.

"So did I...," said James. He grinned. "That _witch!_" He looked over his shoulder down at the passageway, and an apprehensive-looking Wormtail waiting by the entrance. "I'm gonna go bug her. I'll catch up."

"Sure thing," said Sirius, glancing over at where Snape was for the first time. "Take your time."

James ran off, and as soon as he did, Snape came forward from the darkness, wand raised. Harry watched him step up to Sirius who feigned blindness.

"Snape!" he said suddenly. "Where'd you come from?"

"Where did Lupin go?" said Snape, his wand at Sirius. "Where does this tunnel lead?"

Sirius tried to make it seem as though he hadn't been planning this all night:

"No where in particular," he said, looking overly guilty. "No where you'd be interested in, anyway."

"Get out of the way, Pettigrew," snapped Snape, stepping towards the passage. "I'll just find out for myself, shall I?"

Sirius contained his laughter, but only just slightly—Harry was rather sick at his nonchalance. Snape would be _killed..._it wasn't the worst image in the world, but it wasn't a laughing matter either, to Harry at least.

"No! Don't do _that!_" Sirius said, clearly insincere. Harry could only think of how drastically Snape had improved his powers of perception over the years. How could he be falling for this?

Snape, needless to say, ignored him. He sneered at Sirius, and stepped into the tunnel. Just as he did, James returned. Harry blinked, wondering if he would be forced to go along with Snape through the tunnel, since this was his memory—

But the blink was not a blink. It was a fleeting instant of black, and the scene had changed once more.

Harry was in the hospital wing, and for a moment it seemed as though he was in his dream once more—or at least one of his _own_ memories—but it was as if the brief instant had not been strong enough to change memories, and only fast-forwarded the same one.

It seemed so to be because Harry was standing just over the bed of someone who appeared to be Harry himself, but was instead his father. On the bed to the right lay Snape, and seated in between were the other three Marauders.

Sirius and Wormtail were seated facing James, watching him sleep. There was a scar on his cheek that looked as though it had been rather deep, but Harry was sure that Madam Pomfrey—or whoever it was in this when—had been able to patch it up in a moment.

Lupin, however, was facing Snape. Harry walked over to him, bent down to his level (Lupin was seated, of course) and looked at his face—he was..._crying_. Sobbing, more like. And it was odd, because Lupin did not look like he cried very often—he was rather large, tall-wise, and just didn't look the type to cry, unless there was a very good reason—Harry knew he _did _have a very good reason. Lupin had, quite unintentionally, nearly killed Snape, and likely James as well. Harry watched him cry, and just before the scene faded to black, Harry noticed that Snape had one eye open, the one on the side of his face facing away from the Marauders, and was watching the Gryffindors in the mirror on the wall.

(This was, of course, logical, because otherwise how could this be Snape's memory?)

And then the scene was gone, and another, more familiar one had taken its place: Harry had found his dream again.

Harry was no longer at Privet Drive; he was back at Grimmauld Place, right inside the door.

Harry stood by himself—not alone, of course, but _next to _himself—and noticed Sirius standing in the shadows.

"Harry," said Sirius, hands up over his eyes. "Would you mind shutting the door? It's bright out there. I can't stand the sunshine, sometimes...guess I got used to the dark, you know?" He grinned at Harry as the latter shut the door, but Harry suddenly remembered the door slamming shut. How had it opened again? Had someone else come in?

Dream-Harry did shut the door, and _Sirius grinned again and put an arm round Harry's shoulders. "That's better, isn't it? Now, what brings you here? I thought you were at the Burrow."_

"So did I," said Harry, and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

Harry looked at Sirius and saw in him an odd quality, an odd...something, something that he had not seen while living the dream the first time...

"Something wrong?" Sirius asked.

Was he paler? Was he thinner? It would make sense—it wasn't as though he'd been getting out much lately, if at all. In fact, Harry was reasonably sure that the last time he'd been out of the house was the end of term, when he'd come with the others to Kings Cross.

"Hey, let's go down to the kitchen, eh? You must be starved from all that running." He smirked. "I should know, right?"

"_Sure_," said Dream-Harry, and Sirius led him down to the basement kitchen. Harry followed, and stood attentively while Dream-Harry sat down at the table.

Sirius asked, "_What do you want to eat? I'm quite the cook, you know—can make anything you want, except for...Chinese, French, Indonesian, Japanese...all sorts of others...and Italian. I've never had any luck with those. Especially Italian._"

Dream-Harry laughed, and as he did Harry looked round the room. He had a gut feeling—OK, maybe more than a gut feeling—that this was it, this was the memory, this was the _part _of the memory he was looking for. But where was the missing piece?

"_So what's it gonna be?_" Sirius asked. "_I don't have all day, you know._"

Dream-Harry agreed to cereal, and then laughed at something Sirius said; Harry didn't hear this time. He was too busy looking round the room purposefully, trying to spot the something he'd forgotten, waiting for something to jog his memory.

Then Harry thought that perhaps it was something that was _said_ that he'd missed? In that case, he'd better pay attention. (He didn't, however, really think this was true.)

"_So_," said Sirius, "_how are you and Ginny doing? Any good snogging lately?_"

Dream-Harry fought for a reasonable response to that, but once again Harry had zoned him out. He couldn't seem to pay attention to the words being said; something told him they weren't important.

"_Trix? Count Chocula? Lucky Charms?_" Sirius offered Dream-Harry. "_That doesn't even _look_ like a leprechaun..._"

"_I'll take the Lucky Charms,_" said Dream-Harry. "_I could use some of them nowadays._"

Harry felt some feeling inside of him intensify, even though he hadn't noticed it at its non-intensified stage; it was _very _close.

"_Sure_," said Sirius. "_Whatever you say._"

Sirius now opened the refrigerator—and Harry's eyes alighted as Dream-Harry noticed that there _was _a refrigerator. which looked not just slightly out-of-place but intensely out-of-place.

Harry saw a blood-red substance inside it, some sort of potion.

HARRY SAW A BLOOD-RED SUBSTANCE INSIDE IT, SOME SORT OF POTION.

This_ was it. _This was the missing piece, and Harry knew it as soon as his eyes had noticed it.

And as soon as he had mentally placed this missing piece back into the puzzle that was this dream, this whatever-it-was, Harry was lifted out of the Pensieve, and he found himself on the kitchen floor of the Burrow.

"Red," he said as soon as he'd become aware of himself. "A bottle of red stuff, that's what was—"

"Harry, please sit and explain this—you'll find it is much more comfortable than the floor," said Dumbledore. He turned to Mrs Weasley. "Not that your floors are uncomfortable, Molly; I would hate you to think I was insulting you."

"No, I hadn't even thought of—" Mrs Weasley shook her head, not caring to finish the thought.

Harry stood, sat down at the table, and said:

"There was a phial of red stuff, some potion I reckon, in the refrigerator at Grimmauld Place. Sirius said it was some medicine. He seemed rather dodgy when he said it, though. Why...why was there red stuff in the refrigerator?"

Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow. "Indeed, what was the refrigerator doing there in the first place? I don't recall one from my last visit, and if there had been one when the Order adopted the house as its headquarters, I'm sure Arthur would have confiscated it by now.

"This red 'stuff', as you put it," said Dumbledore. "Could you describe it a bit more vividly? 'Stuff' is an awfully vague word—not an awful word, of course, because I think it is quite a wonderful word, but it is quite imprecise, you must admit."

Harry shook his head, not knowing how to describe it. "I dunno... it... it looked like blood, I guess."

And in a moment, without any intermediate stage of change, Dumbledore's face was intensely serious. Any glimmer of humour in his eyes had vanished, and in a moment so would he:

"He couldn't have become one as well, could he?" Dumbledore said, much to himself, very little if any to anyone else.

Dumbledore Disapparated, and it was felt to Harry like only a moment or two before there was a knock on the front door—a bang, more like. It really must have been at least an hour, but none of the kitchen's occupants said a word in that whole time—Ron, in fact, was the only one that had moved, fixing himself a sandwich with which to pass the time.

Time had blurred, to Harry, who now stood, and made for the door. Mrs Weasley cut him off.

"You'd best let me get it," she said, and Harry sat back down.

Minutes (pretending to be seconds) passed in silence, but for the quiet whisper of conversation that could be heard from the front door. Soon enough, Mrs Weasley had returned, followed by Remus Lupin, who was... was...

—who was _crying._

Harry's eyes widened as Lupin said the words that Harry knew—_knew_—had been coming, deep inside. That did not prevent the shock he felt when he heard them aloud:

"There's nothing we could do, Harry... nothing... he's gone."

**_ Next Chapter_**

"Truths that wake,  
To perish never."  
William Wordsworth ****

Coming Soon 

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	6. Running in the Family

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _

**_Part One  
The Shadow of Death_**

"Truths that wake,  
To perish never."  
William Wordsworth

**_Chapter Five  
Running in the Family _**

Wiping her eyes of the tears that blurred her vision, Ginny reached down and held her hand over her foot for what seemed like hours before she finally was able to get the nerve to touch it, to pull it out. When she did, she let out a scream that could wake the dead.

In fact, it nearly did so.

Petunia's eyes snapped open, and she felt her breath hitch—she coughed, and she could breathe.

She heard other breathing, breathing quite unlike her own. She looked over to her side and saw the girl, the red-haired girl, the one who looked like _her._ She was sobbing on the other bed and holding her hand over her foot, which was bleeding.

Petunia opened her mouth to speak, but could not articulate the words—she closed her eyes, took a breath, and tried again:

"You look just like her."

Petunia was sure that that was not what she had meant to say, and she cursed herself for saying it nonetheless. She realised that she felt much calmer than she had before she had woken up...before she had fallen asleep? When had she fallen asleep, anyway?

The girl looked up, breathing unsteadily.

"You're awake," she said, and Petunia tried to nod but only managed an odd sort of shiver.

The girl nodded, and Petunia realised that 'the girl' was not a very good title for this girl. Petunia felt that she was too important for such a measly reference as that, and she wondered why.

"What's your... who are..." Petunia tried to say.

"I'm... Ginny Weasley," said..._Ginny_ hesitantly, breath still coming in sharp gasps and blood still coming in short spurts. She wrapped her foot in the bed sheet and Petunia thought that that couldn't be the best action.

"You look just like her," said Petunia once again, and she cursed herself. Why did she keep saying that?

"I know," said Ginny.

"You...know?"

Ginny nodded. "Your sister, right? I know."

Silence.

"Are you in love with my nephew?" was the next sentence that somehow popped its way out of Petunia's voice box.

Ginny blinked. "Nice to meet you too," she said, before gasping painfully. She unwrapped her foot slightly and peered at it, grimaced, and wrapped it up again. The sheet was turning red.

"Are you in love with my nephew?" said Petunia again for reasons she could not fathom, could not possibly understand for the simple reason that she did not believe they existed.

Ginny blinked again, winced, and stared at Petunia.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I am. What's it to you?"

Petunia didn't know. She was feeling a bit light-headed, and her vision was getting a little bit blurry.

"Oh, God," said Petunia suddenly, her memory returning to her with the force of a thousand anvils, "my family."

"What?" said Ginny. "What about your family?"

"They're gone," said Petunia, who now knew exactly what she was saying and wished decidedly that she didn't. "Both of them are—"

"How do you mea—" said Ginny, her voice trailing off in a squeak.

"Dementors. They... they... oh my God," she said, before falling upon her pillow once again.

——

_"He hasn't gone!_" Harry wanted to yell, but he couldn't, because he knew he had. Harry didn't know how, but he had. Harry didn't know how...Harry _wanted _to know how...

"How?" said Harry, and he felt tears cascade their way down his face, as the rain slides its way down a sloped roof, or blood trickles down from a wound.

Lupin shook his head, either unknowing or simply incapable of telling. Dumbledore appeared once more beside the werewolf, and Harry thought he saw true grief on the old man's face.

"Harry," he said, and there was an odd quality in the voice—quite possibly the same grief that graced his face. "I am so very sorry—"

Suddenly Harry could not stand to hear condolences—either he heard answers, or he didn't hear anything at all.

"HOW DID HE DIE?"

They all were taken aback by his tone. Dumbledore was the most calm, the most reasonable, the most willing to tell Harry what he wanted to hear:

"If you all would please excuse us...I have many things to explain to Harry now. Please let us alone."

Harry followed Dumbledore past the couch and into the kitchen—Harry recalled that it was only days ago that he and Ginny had kissed on this couch; how long ago _that _felt. As if he had died and come back to life in the time since. Harry shook himself, and sat down opposite the headmaster at the table once again.

"Now, Harry," said Dumbledore, "this may take a while to explain to you. I would appreciate it if you would not interrupt me, though I know for a fact that you will not heed this request. Listen, now: I'm going to tell you everything—everything that I know about this subject, at least."

Harry thought Dumbledore was wrong: he would not interrupt, not this time. He could not bring himself even to speak again.

All he could do was listen.

——

Ginny stood painfully and replaced the bloody bed sheet with a soon-to-be-bloody pillowcase, which she tied around her foot in a miserable imitation of a shoelace.

Wincing, Ginny made her way downstairs. She didn't really want to go—what if she walked into Harry?—but she felt she had to alert someone that Harry's aunt had awoke.

She stumbled down the last few steps and fell down right onto her mother, who somehow managed to stay upright.

"Ginny, dear, what's wrong? What happened to your foot?"

"I cut it," said Ginny, wincing. "Harry's—"

"—with Dumbledore," said Mrs Weasley. "He can't talk right now—"

"I mean that Harry's au—Dumbledore? What's Dumbledore doing here?"

And now Ginny noticed that there were tears in her mother's eyes, and her face looked more wrinkly than normal. Ginny's eyes widened.

"What happened?"

——

"Sirius is—was—a vampire, Harry. There is no other way to say it, unless I said that he was a vampyre with a 'y' instead of an 'i', but that spelling hasn't been used for ages."

Harry's mouth fell open and his eyes blinked several times. His first thought was an unexpected one: he realised then that Dumbledore's odd sayings and statements were not borne from the urge to be funny—no, Dumbledore was more like Luna, and the oddness was just a part of him, and he probably didn't realise that what he was saying was odd, all the time. Harry thought this now, of all times, because surely—_surely_—Dumbledore was not trying to be funny right now.

Harry's second thought was a bit different:

"No he wasn't!"

Dumbledore fixed his glasses up on his nose; they had been slipping. "Yes," he said gravely, "I'm afraid he was."

Harry blinked several more times, sure that this was yet another of his seemingly random dreams. But no—it was real. But what on earth...

"You're mad," said Harry, and he wondered if it was the first time anyone had ever called Dumbledore mad to his face—no, probably not; Dumbledore didn't seem to mind.

"I'm not mad, Harry—well, not about this, anyway. Sirius was a vampire. And I thought you said you'd let me explain."

Harry remembered this now too—apparently, Dumbledore knew him better than he knew himself.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and began once more:

"Sirius was a vampire. I had never known, never suspected, until you mentioned the red substance in your dream—that was blood. According to legend, vampires drink blood, _must _drink blood, in order to stay alive—though it is not always quite as drastic as that. The blood in your dream was a clue from your subconscious that something was wrong."

"But how would my subconscious know anything about Sirius being a vampire?" The words felt odd as they slipped off of Harry's tongue, as if he were lying, or pretending, or ... or just as if he were speaking words that he knew were false.

"I have a theory," said Dumbledore, and he smirked slightly, just the tiniest bit, as if to say _Don't I always seem to have a theory?_ "I believe that perhaps this event evolves from your connection with Voldemort."

What doesn't?

"I believe that as Voldemort grows ever stronger, and his perception of the world grows ... as he slowly attempts to become omniscient ... that your mind is beginning to perceive things ... thoughts, inklings ... that you otherwise could never be aware of."

"Hang on—did you just say Voldemort is trying to become omniscient? All-knowing?"

A pause. "Yes. Yes, I did. He may not even realise that he is attempting such a feat, but indeed he is. As he reaches out with his mind across the universe, he begins to learn of things that he never even cared to know, never cared to try to find out—and maybe he doesn't even know he knows them."

Harry shook his head, not really comprehending. "You were talking about Sirius being a vampire...?"

"Oh, yes, how did my train of thought get so dreadfully off the track? Where was I? Oh, yes. The blood. Your mind tried to warn you—or even, perhaps, warn Sirius. But it was too late—when I arrived at Grimmauld Place, Remus had already found him."

Harry took a breath. "How did he die? I mean...that's what I asked to begin with, right? And you haven't said—"

"He was pushed, Harry. Through a second-story window of headquarters. We are not sure who the pusher was, but we suspect it may have been—"

"Lestrange," said Harry suddenly, fiercely. "It was Bellatrix Lestrange."

Dumbledore hesitated a moment. "I do not doubt that."

"That _murderer_..." Harry had hated Bellatrix before, but now the hate was all-consuming, and at the moment he could feel nothing besides the white-hot searing of that hate within his every nerve. He would kill her...he would avenge Sirius—

"Harry, where are you going?" Dumbledore said now, and Harry realised that he'd stood and was walking towards the door. When had he drawn his wand?

He dropped it as he came back to awareness, and noted absently once again as he sat down that it _wasn't _his wand, that it was _Voldemort's _wand. And Harry hated the fact that he could mistake it so easily, despite its opposing form.

"Harry, Sirius was pushed from that window, but it was not the fall that killed him. He was pushed _into the sunlight._ I do trust that you know what sunlight does to vampires?"

Harry nodded. There had been unpleasant descriptions—and illustrations—in some of his course books, and he very much did not want to picture Sirius looking like _that._

"_That_ is what happened to Sirius, Harry," said Dumbledore. "_That _is how he died."

Harry sat in silence for a moment, and then realised that this story had not taken very long to tell at all. He knew in an instant that that meant Dumbledore had more to tell.

——

Ginny noticed now that Professor Lupin was also in the living room, sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. Was he crying as well?

"What happened?" said Ginny again.

"You see, Ginny," said Mrs Weasley, putting an arm round her daughter's shoulders, "something has hap—"

"Who died?" Ginny said suddenly, knowing that someone had to have without knowing why she knew that someone had to have.

Mrs Weasley caught her breath for a moment, seeming surprised—perhaps because Ginny had said what she'd said—before speaking:

"Sirius."

This was not as much of a shock to Ginny as she thought it would have been.

She wondered why.

——

"You may be wondering, though," said the headmaster, "how he came to be a vampire in the first place."

Harry still could not believe that there was _any_ possibility that Sirius _could _have been a vampire, and so hardly could stand to hear the confidence in Dumbledore's voice, the sheer _lack of doubt. _It was as if Dumbledore was saying, "_You must be wondering why the sky appears blue..._"

"Yeah," said Harry, closing his eyes for a minute—the image of Sirius with burnt, crumbling skin haunted the insides of his eyelids.

"Quite simply, Harry," said Dumbledore, "it was hereditary. Sirius inherited it from his parents."

Harry furrowed his brow. _That doesn't make sense, _he thought.

"But the Blacks were crazy about blood-purity. You mean to tell me that they were all vampires?"

"No, not at all, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I merely mean that the vampire trait runs in the Black family. Not _everyone _turns out to be a vampire. In fact, the majority of the Blacks were not.

"Until today, I had assumed that Sirius too had not become one—his brother had, you know, Regulus—you see, the trait is a bit like an allergy that does not present itself until late in life. For example, I know a man who is allergic to attics. He has been for nearly all his life, but his _brother_ did not develop the allergy until his just after his fortieth birthday."

Harry wondered why Dumbledore seemed to venture into the irrelevant so much today. "How can someone be allergic to _attics?_"

"I hardly think that that is relevant," said Dumbledore. "As I was saying, none of the Blacks had ever shown signs of becoming vampires once they were well into their adult lives. Most in their early thirties, some sooner. I had assumed that Sirius, being nearly forty, would never develop the...disease, if you will.

"(If you have ever wondered why Grimmauld Place's kitchen is located in the basement, without any windows...well, I surmise you can figure that out.)

"I was wrong, it seems, about Sirius. Sometime in the past few years, he _has _developed the disease, though for some reason he has not shared it with anyone—something that could have helped him a great deal. I realised today that it has been since before Sirius went to Azkaban that I had seen him in the sun in his human form. (I suspect that his dog form somehow protects against the sun, like that Muggle cream with the little girl and puppy on the bottle.)

"I don't know for certain how the Blacks originally developed the disease—I fear that one Black may have been bitten generations ago, and in-breeding has resulted in...these results."

"But what about how the Blacks were so maniacal about having pure blood?"

"Largely from insecurity, I would surmise," said Dumbledore. "When the Death Eaters found a vampire within their midst, fifteen years ago—Sirius's brother—_they_ dealt with it the way true pureblood-maniacs would: they had him executed."

"Yeah, I know," said Harry. Dumbledore looked at him oddly, but did not comment.

——

"How Merlin's name did you cut your foot so badly? You've sliced the whole darn thing, right down the middle."

Ginny's face scrunched up in pain once more, and her mother leaned her onto the couch, beside Professor Lupin.

"Honestly, how many people have to get hurt in this house before somebody calls a

mediwitch?" Mrs Weasley walked towards the door to the kitchen, only to be given quite a fright when Dumbledore opened it right before her.

"Oh, goodness! I'd forgotten you were in there."

"You don't have to worry about that," said Dumbledore with an odd sort of half-smile that seemed beyond withered and made Mrs Weasley think for some reason that he did not speak of her poor memory. "I'll send Poppy over in a jiffy. She is always so very bored during the holidays, always hoping for someone to break a leg in a staff member's presence, or—even better—for a staff member to break a leg. She'll be happy to be of service."

"Er, thank you," said Mrs Weasley gratefully, if slightly reluctantly—she hadn't _seriously _meant to call a mediwitch. She had only meant to go stand by the fireplace and decide _not _to call a mediwitch, because surely she could handle it herself.

It was when Dumbledore disappeared suddenly, leaving for Madam Pomfrey, that they all noticed Harry. His face did not seem to show the least bit of emotion, which in itself is indifference, but Harry was not indifferent, that was obvious.

He sat down next to Ginny on the couch, not even mentioning her foot; it was as though he couldn't even see it.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, and it should have lasted longer than a moment by all logic. But no, in only a few short seconds, a _crack! _sounded the arrival of Madam Pomfrey. She seemed very excited.

"It's Potter, isn't it?" she said so quickly that the 'it's' was partly cut off my the _crack!_ "I've always wondered how he manages to not get hurt all summer long."

"Er," said Mrs Weasley, taken aback my the mediwitch's sudden entrance. "No. It's Ginny—" Harry's head jerked up, as if just now noticing that Ginny had been hurt (as if, for that matter, he hadn't noticed Madam Pomfrey at all), "—and, and Harry's aunt, too. But Ginny's is more urgent."

Madam Pomfrey bustled over to Ginny and drew her wand. She knelt down on the floor before the girl and lifted up the injured foot.

She looked as though she wanted to know how Ginny had managed to slice her foot open, but she never asked questions about her patients; perhaps she was too afraid that they'd tell her the answers.

Madam Pomfrey ran her wand along the wound, slowly drawing an invisible circle round it. She muttered:

"_Sutura venae! Sutura Dermis!_" The blood stopped flowing instantly, and the skin mended itself together in a moment.

"That's it?" Mrs Weasley harrumphed. "Well, I could have done that. I just did it the other day for Har—"

"What is that?" said Madam Pomfrey suddenly, down at Ginny's head as she stood up once more. She walked round the couch quickly and began to feel the top of Ginny's head—its owner seemed perplexed, to say the least.

"What is what?" Ginny said, rolling her eyes up as far as they could go, in a futile attempt to see the top of her own head.

"This bump, here." Madam Pomfrey pressed lightly on it, making Ginny recoil in pain.

"That hurts!" she said, trying to control the urge to slap the woman's hand away.

"Of course it does. Did this bump develop magically? From a hex?"

Ginny shook her head, which was somehow painful, though it wouldn't have been only a moment ago. "I fell back in my chair a few days ago. I hit my head." Her eyes became distracted for a moment, before returning to normal. "It stopped hurting a long time ago."

Madam Pomfrey bit her lip, shaking her head, while she felt around the bump with her fingers as lightly as she could. The other people in the room watched in confusion.

"This is a magical bruise," Madam Pomfrey said firmly. "And a serious one at that."

Ginny's eyes widened, looking up at her mother, who looked as shocked as she did herself.

"Let me see," said Mrs Weasley, and Madam Pomfrey stepped over to allow Ginny's mother access to her head. Mrs Weasley shook her head vehemently. "It wasn't nearly this bad when I looked at it before. It just looked like a teeny bump."

"Oh Snitch," said Madam Pomfrey, epiphany in her eyes. "It couldn't be that, could it?" she said to herself. She stepped away from Ginny, a worried look in her eyes. "I must go. I must refer to a text I've just recalled... I believe it is in the Restricted Section at the school." She said this last part to herself, as if reminding herself aloud. "Miss Weasley is to stay off her feet. But...and you are sure to think this is odd, but I strongly suggest you do not fall asleep."

"What?" said Ginny, and Harry, and Mrs Weasley, and even Professor Lupin, who had been silent for the longest time.

"As I said," said Madam Pomfrey, "this is serious."

She disappeared with a _crack!_

_** Author's Note **_

So there you have it; Sirius is a vampire. Did you see it coming? Please post your thoughts.

I would like to state now that this is _not _just a twist for the sake of having a twist — I actually, truly believe that Sirius is, canonically, a vampire. The evidence is simply undeniable.

I don't really want to get into this in much detail here, but just a few notes on the theory (note on the notes: not all of the evidence has been taken advantage of in this story):

— Sirius _has never _been seen in the sunlight out of his Animagus form.

— The Grimmauld Place kitchen _is _in the basement.

— In PoA, Snape was _convinced _that Sirius could not have entered the castle alone. Vampires, according to legend, cannot cross a threshold without permission.

— Quirrell had a run-in with vampires in the _Black _Forest. Coincidence?

— Sirius was actually described as looking like a vampire, in PoA...something along the lines of, "Harry had never met a vampire, but..."

This theory is explained in much greater detail in "HAVE YOU SEEN THIS VAMPIRE?" an editorial by HJSnapePM and myself. It is located at:

_polyjuice . 275mb . com / HHGP / index.html_

Please review. And also, please comment on the message board at the site listed above — remove the spaces, please, or it will most certainly never work. Just for you all to know, _this _is why I haven't posted in such a long time: I've been waiting until we could have the theory up and ready, so that you all don't think I'm just barmy.

I certainly hope this doesn't sway you to think that I'm _not_, of course.

See you next time.

**_ Next Chapter  
_**  
"Lost time is never found again."   
Benjamin Franklin   
**  
Coming Soon **

Intrigued by Yesterday? Check out the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_

Please review.


	7. Draco's Detour

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _**__**

Part One  
The Shadow of Death

"Lost time is never found again."  
Benjamin Franklin

**_ Chapter Six  
Draco's Detour _**

"Be careful, Granger," Malfoy warned smugly, "you never know who's listening."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

_Malfoy's voice was but a harsh whisper. "I hear my dad pulled the wool over your eyes, up at the Riddle House. Heard everything you said to that _traitor." _It was clear Malfoy's high regard for Snape had blown out the window and was now chasing its tail in the Forbidden Forest. "Wish I could've been there; I would've _loved _to see the look on your face... Oh, right, you never said; how_ is _spew going these days?"_

_"Say, Malfoy," ground out Ron. "Did dear-old-daddy also say what Hermione here _did_ to him?"_

_"Be _quiet_, Ron," snaped Hermione._

_"I know she didn't _swear_..." Malfoy said knowingly, not paying Ron the respect of looking his way._

"She hit him right in the face," said Ron proudly, ignoring them both, "with the--"

"Silencio!"

Ron's final words were cut off by the Silencing Charm. His eyes widened, and he looked, enraged, at Hermione. But she paid him no mind, for she was too busy cursing Malfoy into oblivion.

"Iterius!"

——

Malfoy awoke.

His eyes opened slowly and his ears began to hear the sounds round him; rustling branches, leaves... footsteps, too, but he couldn't really make them out, couldn't really tell what they were.

His eyes saw only the leaves below him, and he realised that he had dirt in his mouth. He spit it out, and attempted to get himself off of the ground; he couldn't. His legs seemed to have stuck together, or to the ground, or something, and he couldn't move them. He tried to move his arms, and eventually he managed it.

He pushed, trying to get into a sitting position, but he only managed to roll himself over, so that his back was to the ground. He could see the trees, now, towering above him on all sides.

Crunch-crunch.

He jerked his head to the side, hearing now what he hadn't known he had heard before: footsteps.

Malfoy closed his eyes briefly, trying to remember how he had come to be here, in these woods, in this forest. Where _was _this forest? He had so many questions to ask, if only there was someone around to answer them.

Crunch-crunch.

He shivered slightly, despite the summer air. It _was _summer, yes? For some reason, he felt as though a great deal of time had passed since he last remembered.

Crunch-crunch.

Someone else was here—or something. Malfoy could feel it, could sense it, but couldn't tell what _it _was.

He pulled himself as best as he could, dragging his body along with his arms. He felt like a snake, though of course snakes do not have arms.

_Can't imagine how they manage it_, he thought, grimacing as he caught his foot on a root.

He reached out for a rock that looked sturdy enough to use to pull himself... but as soon as his finger touched the rough surface, he _remembered_.

——

Be careful, Granger. You never know who's listening.

And what's supposed to mean?

_Whisper: Dad pulled the wool over your eyes, with the riddle in the house. I heard everything you said to that _traitor. _There to see the look... Never said._

_Spew?_

Be careful, Granger. You never know who's listening.

_Hermione _did_ to him?_

Quiet.

The face with the silence.

Be careful, Granger. You never know who's listening.

_"_Iterius!_"_

——

Malfoy shook his head. What had that been? Just a blur... a blur of a memory. As if the full memory had attempted to get through to his mind, but some had been held back, or lost in translation.

Be careful, Granger. You never know who's listening.

Malfoy stopped at the rock, breathing in and out.

Crunch-Be careful, Granger-crunch.

His head felt now as though it had swelled up, his brain being crushed by his skull. It pained him greatly and he wished it would stop. He fell back down to the ground, covering his head with his hands,

(just as the Thing jumped at him, attacking its prey; it missed and was past him before it knew it had done so)

just as he felt the slightest tingling in his legs, the first he'd felt since waking up.

He lifted his head and gazed down at his legs, and as soon as he looked at them, they seemed to come alive, and he was left wondering whether he really hadn't been able to move them in the first place.

Standing now, Malfoy looked round him, _really _looked round him, for the first time.

The woods had a darkish light to them, the sun shining through the leaves high above. Malfoy turned round in a circle to see,

(and the Thing hid behind a tree from its prey, with much more stealth than is to be expected from a large, humpbacked creature such as itself)

and began to walk.

He walked slowly at first, then faster and faster until he was running and all the while he did not know why. He kept running, and before long he heard something running along behind him. He did not look back,

(and the Thing was glad, because it could never have gotten out of the way quick enough)

and he felt that if he did, he would wish that he hadn't.

Running, running, running, flying he went, as he tripped over a tree root and found himself sprawled on the ground. Something seemed to have cracked, and not just the tree root.

Malfoy could not get up, once more, and in a moment the Thing was upon him.

Malfoy screamed as he turned round and saw it; large and greyish-purple, with uncomfortably sharp horns and a humped back, Malfoy recognised it as a Graphorn from his texts. And he recognised its horns as very painful when the came into contact with his skin.

The next moments blurred into each other for Malfoy. He was battered about in every which way and the next thing he knew he had been sent flying through the air once more, landing in a puddle of something that felt oddly thick.

The Graphorn made a sound of panic as he landed and dashed away without a backward glance.

"What in the hell was that about?" he said, and then whimpered in pain as he realised that he shouldn't have tried to speak. His throat hurt dreadfully from being tossed about—he reckoned he'd gotten the side of a horn there—and all he wanted was to get out of the woods, get back to the school, or to his Manor. Would school still be in session? _Had _school still been in session? He couldn't remember.

Malfoy realised that his eyes were closed, and part of him wanted them to stay that way, so as to not see what he looked like after his beating, and part of him knew that he had to see where he was now.

He opened them, and saw below him an odd mix of scarlet and silver. The scarlet was his own blood, dripping from his wounds at what could be called a leisurely pace. The silver was... he wondered what the silver was.

And then he knew; he'd seen it once before, a _long _time ago. A time that seemed even longer ago than it truly was.

The silver was unicorn blood.

Again he was divided; part of him, by reflex, wanted to jump away from the blood, to wipe it off of him and leave it undisturbed, to be ashamed that his blood had polluted its surface.

But the rest of him...

Malfoy dropped his face to the blood, looked at it from only inches away. He opened his mouth...but no. It was wrong.

He could not drink his _own _blood as well, could he? At least he couldn't _look at it._ So he took his hand now and swirled the blood around

—a creature, greyish-purple, stabbing its long, sharp horns through the heart of a pure white beast with a single horn of its own, the unicorn fell to the earth and blood poured out from under it, the creature ran at the sight, feeling the slaughter of innocence, the guilt encompass its mind and heart, and it ran—

and the red was devoured by the silver in moments. Malfoy grinned, and dropped his face once more.

He drank of the blood, and he no longer felt the pain of his wounds. He drank of the blood, and his wounds themselves disappeared into his skin. He drank of the blood, and his eyes suddenly felt clearer, all three of them, and—

...what?

He _had two eyes._ Why had he thought he had three? Who had three eyes?

No one—a slip of the mind, that was all. A slip of the mind, and nothing more. Yes. That was it.

Malfoy stood now, after one more drink, and he felt the bliss of pureness rush through his veins. He could walk fine now, with no trouble, and he did so.

He walked, and walked, and walked, and he soon found himself at the edge of the forest. It had not taken as long as he had expected, or perhaps it only was less strenuous than it may have been.

He was at Hogwarts, now, from behind the oaf's hut. He paused to consider what to do next.

Be careful, Granger. You never know who's listening.

Granger. He would find Granger. She had done this to him, hadn't she?

Hadn't she?

Yes, of course she had. Iterius. Iterius. It was her, I remember. Iterius.

But where would he look for her?

Well, where does she live? That's where she'll be, yes? It's the summer now, it is, I know it—the castle's empty, I can see it. But where does she live?

He could find her. Surely there was a way.

He stayed well in the forest, keeping sight of the edge, and moved along the grounds towards Hogsmeade. He had to get off the grounds, so that he could Apparate. He would have to thank his father for teaching him early... actually, no; if he told his father anything, then Lucius would be angry that Malfoy'd been stupid enough to not Apparate _while he was lost._

"Why didn't I?" said Malfoy to himself. "That was idiotic."

_Be careful, Granger. You never know who's listening._

_Crunch-crunch_, went Malfoy's feet as he walked, though he was trying to be as quiet as possible. The inevitable sounds of the forest floor he could do nothing about, though he hoped no one would notice—no one was near, after all.

——

Crack!

Malfoy had Apparated from the edge of Hogsmeade, and he was thankful not to have splinched himself—he had done it without a specific location in mind. He'd just tried to go to 'Granger's house', so desperate was he without knowing why he was so desperate. He wouldn't be surprised if he had missed by miles.

He was now in the middle of a Muggle street, and he put his wand away quickly so as not to be noticed. Surely if he was to be given away, it would be his robes that did it, and not something he could have prevented.

He moved over to the sidewalk when a car came down the pavement, and walked at a steady pace, wondering how he would identify Granger's house.

As a large family came down the same side of the sidewalk as Malfoy, the latter moved over to the side, brushing up against the garden fence

—a family sitting round a Christmas tree, two little girls with blonde pigtails jumping on their parents' laps—the same family eating a turkey dinner, the girls both reaching for the same piece of bird—the mother and daughters gathered round a gravestone in a cemetery, the little girls on the ground crying with flowers in their hair, the grave is that of the father, who has been killed by mysterious terrorists wearing black robes and silver masks—

noticing that it wasn't only poor wizarding families that had too many children for their own good.

Hang on.

Malfoy stopped, looking blankly ahead but not really seeing anything. Had he just...? What had that been?

He backed up a step and touched the garden fence once again. In his mind flashed the image of the gravestone, once more accompanied by an explanation of the event.

And then it was gone.

How did I do that?

Malfoy did not know, but he knew that he had—and he knew how he was going to find Granger.

Walking along the street, Malfoy touched each garden fence carefully, watching each vision of what he somehow knew was the past and the future. Occasionally, he wondered what was happening to these families now, in the present—but then he realised he didn't care.

He passed deathly-ill children and unfaithful spouses, and everything in between, until he came to the last house on this side of the street—where the block turned to the right and continued along the next street.

Just as he reached for the garden fence of this last house, the house's door swung wide and Granger herself emerged. Malfoy hid himself quickly, for some reason, even though he had wanted to find her.

She wore a bag over her shoulder and dashed out to the end of the lawn, seeming extremely careful not to touch the end of the property. Malfoy realised that Dumbledore must have put a protective spell over the house.

"Where _are _they?" said Granger to herself, consulting her watch. "They're late."

Malfoy smirked.

Be careful, Granger. You never know who's listening.

She let out a frustrated breath, before hurrying back inside the house. Malfoy didn't know what to do next; he had wanted to find Granger. But what was he going to do, now that he'd found her? _Kidnap her?—_that was the first thought that came to mind. But no—he couldn't do anything, if Dumbledore had put a charm on the place. And how would he go about kidnapping her, anyway?

Thinking, thinking, thinking, he thought, and then he'd thought of the perfect thing to do. Smirking slightly once again, he placed his hand on the garden fence. A flash came into his mind, as though he'd thought it himself, but also clearly foreign. He grinned fully as he saw it, and he spoke quietly, so that even if she were to come back out, Granger couldn't hear him:

"Be careful, Granger. You never know who's listening."

——

Malfoy had left the Muggle town much more confidently than he had arrived, for now he Apparated to Malfoy Manor, a point he knew very well.

"Draco!" said his mother now, as soon as he appeared—he was in his room, and his mother was sitting on his bed and overlooking the back garden. "You've returned!"

"Yes, Mother," he said.

"Your father has been so worried that you would not make it in time for the full moon—you've missed one already, you know, Draco, and you know how much of a trouble the Dark Lord finds it to initiate new members near the start of term... Everyone's rushing for school supplies, no one has time to do anything for him."

"Of course," said Malfoy. He'd forgotten that he was to become a Death Eater—he'd better not let the Dark Lord know that, though, or he wouldn't.

"Lucius!" called Narcissa now, out the bedroom door. "Lucius!"

A small House-elf appeared before her. "Master is busy right now, Mistress. He sends Snooks to tell Mistress to wait a minute."

"Tell Lucius that Draco's back!" said Narcissa, ignoring the elf's words.

"Yes, Mistress," said Snooks, looking fairly miserable at the news. Malfoy smirked.

In a moment the Elf had gone and reappeared.

"Master tells Snooks to take Master Draco to meet Master and Master's Master at once, Mistress."

"Go ahead," said Narcissa, and Malfoy followed the House-elf down the long corridors of the Manor, until they came to the Apothecary, where the resident brewer made all the potions the family might need, in addition to doing Malfoy's Potions homework.

The resident brewer was not in at the moment, but both Lucius Malfoy and Lord Voldemort were. Malfoy bowed low to both of them, but much lower to the latter.

"Rise, Draco," said the Dark Lord. "You're late."

"I apologise, Master," Malfoy said. "I was cursed on the train."

"And it takes you a month to return to us? Tonight is the full moon, and the next is not until just before your new school term. You would not have been able to take the mark, Draco; it would have shown through even your school robes, as it will for the first week."

"Yes, I am sorry, Master."

"I am not your master yet, Draco," said the Dark Lord. "And sorry is not enough. _Crucio!_"

Malfoy braced himself for the pain, but it didn't come; it took a moment for him to realise that the Dark Lord had cursed his father and not himself.

"You have inconvenienced me," said the Dark Lord. "But I have something to show you."

Curious, Malfoy stepped forward. The Dark Lord led him to a cauldron in the back of the Apothecary, which was bubbling with potion.

Malfoy recognised it.

"Polyjuice?" said he, peering into the cauldron.

"Severus would be delighted that you recognised it," said the Dark Lord, smirking. "Yes. Polyjuice."

"Why are you showing this to me?"

The Dark Lord's voice turned to that of a little child, telling a secret to the closest of friends. "Because, Draco, you must be aware; there is some pretending to be done yet."

**_ Next Chapter_**

"Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!  
Macbeth does murder sleep' – the innocent sleep,  
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,  
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,  
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,  
Chief nourisher in life's feast, –"   
Shakespeare ****

Coming Soon 

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Please review.


	8. Happy Birthday

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_Potter47_

**_ Part One  
The Shadow of Death_**

"Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!  
Macbeth does murder sleep' – the innocent sleep,  
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,  
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,  
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,  
Chief nourisher in life's feast, –"  
Shakespeare 

**_Chapter Seven  
Happy Birthday _**

Hermione stepped out into her front garden, looking about worriedly. Why hadn't they come yet?

She had been contacted early that morning, by Professor Snape of all people, telling her that she was to be removed from her residence and brought to a safe place. She wondered why her house was unsafe all of a sudden.

He had said that she would be picked up at two o'clock. It was now two forty-two, and no one was to be seen—she assumed that they would arrive by an outdoor method of transportation, as her fireplace was not a Floo and her house had been charmed against Apparating.

Hermione walked out to the edge of the lawn quickly, careful not to touch the end of the property—that was where Dumbledore's spells ended, and she wanted to be safe, even if something seemed to have been compromised already. She hiked up the bag on her shoulder and peered down the street. No one.

"Where _are _they?" she said to herself, consulting her watch once more. "They're late."

Letting out a frustrated breath, Hermione hurried back into her house, and was quickly pulled against the wall inside, a hand covering her mouth, preventing her from screaming.

——

Madam Pomfrey did not return that day, and Ginny was becoming impatient—what was wrong with her, anyway? She did not... did not remember, now that she thought about it, _why _she had fallen all those days ago; had it been the wind? But how had the wind knocked her over?

She shook her head, trying to forget it for the moment. To pass the time, Ginny had had her mother put on _The Wizard of Oz_ for her again, although she had a bit of trouble with the machine. Harry had disappeared upstairs after the school nurse had left, and Ginny hadn't heard from him since.

And now, as the film was ending, Ginny felt tired. It had been a long day, she felt, and she wished for nothing more than to go upstairs and curl up in her bed with the sweet knowledge that her alarm would not sound at six fifty-eight tomorrow morning.

But she wasn't supposed to fall asleep—Ginny didn't see what harm it would do, as she'd fallen asleep quite easily every night since the injury, and nothing had come of it.

Ginny let out a breath of frustration. It was bad enough that she had to stay awake; but to have to be _alone _in the _living room _all night...that was another thing entirely.

Ginny curled her arms round her chest and looked out the window at the night sky. The lights of Ottery St. Catchpole could be seen in the distance, as well as the moon—it was full, and she realised now why Professor Lupin had disappeared so suddenly earlier.

Ginny watched the moonlight filter in through the window and, quite clearly, this is a very boring thing to do. Soon, however—though it wasn't really very soon as the clock had long since struck twelve—the moon seemed a great deal more interesting, as it was no longer the moon at all.

——

"Be careful, Miss Granger—you never know who's watching."

Hermione recognised her captor's voice in an instant, and mentally replaced 'captor' with 'rescuer' before even thinking about it. For it was Professor Snape that had snatched her into her house. His grip eased as soon as she relaxed in his arms, and he removed his hand from her mouth.

"What was that about?" Hermione hissed. "Professor?"

"You were being watched, Miss Granger." He put a finger to his lips and pointed out the front window. Draco Malfoy stood there, now, just on the outside of the gate. Hermione's eyes widened.

Professor Snape eased the front door shut—it had been open a crack.

"How did I not see him?" Hermione said, still whispering.

"He was in the bushes," said Snape. "I only noticed him because I was at a better perspective."

Hermione furrowed her brow. She glanced down and noticed the invisibility cloak in the professor's hand.

"Oh."

"You're to come with me," said Snape. "Gather your things."

Hermione shrugged the bag on her shoulder.

"You'll wish to bid farewell to your parents...?"

"I left a note." Snape quirked an eyebrow, and Hermione wondered why.

"I daresay you are familiar with these?" He motioned with the invisibility cloak. She nodded. "Then let us go," he said, and with a flourish he covered them both with the cloak—it was larger than Harry's, apparently.

To Hermione's surprise, they were no longer in her front room—the invisibility cloak had been a Portkey, she now understood, and they now stood in the darkness of a silent corridor. She wondered where they were.

She made as though to ask, but Snape sensed her intentions somehow; he put a finger to his lips before she even made a sound.

Snape began to walk, and Hermione had no choice but to follow. She was so utterly confused and puzzled, and she wished she had asked where they were going before they had gone.

Step, step, step, their feet moved slowly yet quickly at the same time. She didn't think that made sense, and she was right.

Finally they came to a small, pitch-dark alcove, which Snape led the way into. Hermione followed, of course, and as they reached the end, Snape spoke:

"We are at Headquarters, Miss Granger," he said, and her eyes widened—what had happened to the place?

"What's happened?" she said.

"The location has been compromised. I am..._sorry_, to tell you this, but Sirius Black is dead." He did not sound especially sorry to say it, though he also did not sound happy about it, which Hermione thought was a good thing.

"What?" said Hermione disbelievingly. "How did he—?"

"All will be explained in time. Once Black died, the charms that his father had set up on this house deteriorated, the last Black being gone. The location had been discovered before his death, but the event allowed a complete Death Eater raid to take place—As I understand it, Miss Granger, it was Bellatrix Lestrange that killed him; being a Black, she was able to—"

"Professor, you're not making sense," said Hermione, unable to comprehend what Snape was trying to say.

"Then let me put it simply: they've taken over Headquarters. There is a certain thing here that needs to be removed before it is found. I have been sent to retrieve it."

"With me?" she said.

Snape shook his head. "The headmaster seems to have forgotten about you. I took the liberty of removing you myself. He has been very busy today—"

"So what do I do?" Hermione said, and Snape looked at her shrewdly.

"You are to wait here. What did you expect?"

"To come with you!" she said, sounding scandalised. "You can't expect me to just wait here while you risk your neck for the Order!"

"You are not a member of the Order—which means that I certainly can. You must keep watch."

"How am I supposed to keep watch from this place? I can't even see!"

"Will you be _quiet?_" Snape hissed, and Hermione realised that she had been rather loud. "You are to keep watch with _this._" He handed her a piece of parchment, which she took curiously. Glancing over his shoulder, Snape lit his wand.

The parchment read:

THE MARAUDER'S MAP: Home Edition 

"Black created this map of his home when he was a child. He gave it to Dumbledore when this house was implemented as Headquarters. It shows—"

"I know what it shows," said Hermione.

"Do you have your wand?" said Snape, and Hermione pulled it out of her pocket. He took it and carefully touched its tip to the tip of his own wand, as if lighting a candle with one already lit. Hermione's wand flared, and he handed it back. Hermione had read that this was possible, once; she'd just never thought it would be useful. But, of course, if one wand is under supervision from the Ministry during the summer, it makes sense not to use it when operating with stealth.

"Here," Snape said now, handing her what looked like a Muggle walkie-talkie. "It is a Muggle talkie-walkie. I'm sure you've heard of them. Dumbledore gave them to the staff years ago for Easter. I never thought they would be useful, though."

Hermione took the walkie-talkie from him, and for a moment they were both still.

"Good luck," she said, and he nodded, before disappearing out of under the invisibility cloak. She peered at the map.

——

The moon had become a shining stone, far above, on a very high pillar above Ginny. There were other pillars round her, round it, and they were just as tall, just as high above her. And the floor beneath her was

Cold. Very, very cold. Freezing. Stone. Hard stone. Cold, hard stone.

Her eyes opened. Had they been closed? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.

Ginny looked round—no, no, no, no, no, no, not now. Not again.

Everywhere she looked, there was the cold—the cold, tall, stone pillars that were the very pillars that held her up and forced her downwards again.

_An enormous statue rose at the back, she knew, and she did not have to actually look to see it was there. It was there. She knew it was there. Just where it always was, at the back of the chamber._

_The_ Chamber.

The Chamber of Secrets.

"Do you want to play hide and seek?" came a familiar voice, so familiar that it was sickening. It was her self—not herself, but _her self_—the self that belonged to her.

"Hello, Ginevra," said the smooth voice, the one she couldn't see, but of course she couldn't see it, it was a _voice_, after all.

"Do you? Do you?" said the other, and Ginny felt her vision clearing. Had it been blurred? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.

Ginny saw her selves, the selves that belonged to her, the selves that she had created, the selves just before her eyes—the selves _with _her eyes...

"Why am I here?" Ginny asked finally. "Again? Why am I here again?"

"You hit your head hard, Ginny," said the boy, the image of Tom Riddle, the evil inside. "Very hard. In fact—"

"Who cares about that?" said the girl, the eleven-year-old Ginny, the picture of innocence. "Let's play hide and seek!"

"Will you shut up?" said the boy. "This is no time for games." His expression changed slightly, to a small smirk. "Or is it? Is not this whole thing a game? A struggle between opposing forces? Now _is _the time for games, but not for children's games—for the most important game of all."

"What are you on about?" said Ginny, and her head was hurting. Aching. When had it started aching? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.

"Don't you see it, Ginny?" said the boy. "Don't you feel it?"

"Feel what?" said Ginny, and she did feel something, she did feel the unbearable silence of the Chamber, she felt an ache in her head, and she felt precisely what words her self was going to say next:

"It is..._beginning_."

"What is? What are you—what do you—what does it—what _is_ it—" She could not speak, could not finish her questions, for there were far too many questions, yes, too many questions. There were always too many questions, and never were there enough answers, no, never, not once. Ginny didn't like that—why couldn't, just once, someone give answers before revealing the next mystery, the next enigma, the next riddle?

He smiled, but did not speak, and then he was gone—he did not fade, he did not slowly vanish before her eyes—he was gone, just gone, with no intermediate stage of disappearance.

But the other, the other was there still, the girl. She turned towards Ginny, or did Ginny turn towards her? She—Ginny, that is—could not tell.

"Don't mind him," the girl said with a slight smile. "You know how he is—always speaking in riddles. Probably doesn't mean a thing."

"You're...right," said Ginny finally. The girl's smile widened.

"Or am I?" she said, and then she was gone as well, leaving Ginny alone.

Ginny was scared. She was alone. Alone in the Chamber. No one to rescue her, no one to save her from herself.

And then the Chamber slowly faded, faded to blackness, as if it were the end of a film and the credits were about to roll. Ginny knew this blackness; it was the unforgiving blackness of possession, and she had feared it without realising it for a very long time.

Sounds echoed in the blackness, words, voices. Phrases that had come to haunt her, the phrases she heard when a Dementor was near.

_"He hates you._

_"He thinks of you as dirt._

_"He doesn't think of you at all."_

_"Ginny, wake up."_

_"You're evil._

_"You're worse than evil._

_"You're worse than the Dark Lord that _he _defeated so famously..."_

_"Ginny, wake up."_

_"...does he need to vanquish _you_ now?_

_"I bet he does."_

"Ginny, wake up."

Ginny's eyes opened suddenly, and she took a breath of air as soon as she could—she had felt like she was suffocating, and now she could breathe once more.

Harry was standing above her with a fearful look on his face.

"You weren't supposed to go to sleep," he said, but Ginny didn't really hear him.

"It's getting worse," she said, and that was all she could think to say. "It's getting worse."

—— 

Hermione stood in the darkness, watching Professor Snape's dot move slowly—_unbearably_ slowly—on the map. She could hardly believe that he'd even reached the end of the alcove yet—thankfully, the map showed that he _had, _indeed, reached that point, and he was now moving along the corridor.

The dot moved almost imperceptibly, and Hermione realised that she was supposed to be _keeping watch_, which did not mean that she was supposed to stare at Snape's dot. Instead, she looked round the rest of the parchment, and noted some interesting names: Rebastan, Jugson—Dolohov—Avery and Macnair—just a few of the names that popped out to Hermione, and she realised just what 'taken over' meant.

They were nowhere near Snape—he was moving along the first floor, and Hermione noticed that he seemed to have covered a great distance while she wasn't looking—a watched cauldron never boils, after all.

——

"What's getting worse?" said Harry, except that he didn't. Perhaps someone else would have, but Harry knew what was getting worse and had no reason at all to ask; there were a lot of questions that he wouldn't ask, even some that he should have.

"The dreams..."

"You're not supposed to go to sleep," said Harry again.

"I know...but you try to stay awake out here by yourself."

"No problem—I do it all the time."

Ginny looked down or would have if she hadn't looked right at his face, which she did and saw the most painful expression she'd ever seen out of the mirror—painful to Harry and painful to herself.

"What dreams?" said Harry now, breaking the gaze she held on his eyes.

Ginny shook her head, almost dismissively and almost resignedly, but not really any way at all. "I've been dreaming of the Chamber," she began, but then started again. "I've been dreaming about dreaming about the Chamber." But that wasn't right either. "I've been dreaming about Tom."

That was it. Sort of. But it would do.

Harry nodded in what could be called understanding because it was the closest thing to understanding in the world—no one, no one but Harry could come close with a nod, not a soul.

A clock chimed suddenly and it was in a funny, unexpected tune.

_Ding-di-ding-ding-ding-_dong._ Ding-di-ding-ding-ding-_dong._ Ding-di-DING-DING-DING-_DOOO_OONG_..._ding-di-ding-ding-ding-_dong!

Ginny sort of half-laughed. Harry appeared confused, which he was.

"What was...?"

"Happy birthday," she said. "The song. It's your birthday."

"It is?" It was. "Oh, it is," said Harry, sort of enthusiastic and not enthusiastic at the same time, if that was possible. "How did it know...?"

"It's like an alarm clock, I guess," said Ginny, thinking of the smashed one on her floor upstairs. "Suppose it sets itself."

"Who's idea was that?" said Harry, brow furrowed. "I mean, honestly, how likely is it that someone is going to be up at midnight the morning of their birthday?"

"It's not midnight," said Ginny, vaguely remembering that midnight was some time before she had fallen asleep. "It's the time you were born. The minute, I mean."

"So I was born at...one seventeen in the morning?" said Harry, looking at the clock—this one, of course, actually told time. Mr Weasley had thought it would make a nice wall ornament—he didn't have _that _many Muggle things adorning the Burrow, after all—and had soon realised its unexpected practicality.

"Yup," said Ginny, laying her head back and looking up at the ceiling. "I was born at seven thirty-one in the morning, apparently," she said. "I hear that one a bit more often, as you'd guess."

She let out a breath and a sharp blade stabbed her head, prying scalp from bone and brain.

She winced and rolled over, looking back at Harry.

"What's wrong with me?" she said, and Harry put a hand on her head, just holding it there and not really even noticing. Ginny's head didn't hurt any more.

"I could ask the same question," said Harry, and that was the last word either spoke that night. Neither fell asleep, of course. Sometimes they would move round, changing places on the couch, but neither spoke. For most of the night, it was Harry's hand on Ginny's head, a soothing touch in a world of pain, or it was his arm round her back or it was her head on his lap. They were always touching, that was the rule, and neither felt tired at all.

——

Snape walked along a stairway—Hermione couldn't tell if he were walking up or down it, from the map—and emerged into a room that may have been the kitchen or the room above it. He walked across it; stopped; turned back and came the other way. Hermione reckoned he'd picked something up.

Now Snape was walking back, and his dot was nearing and nearing and nearing until suddenly another dot was atop it, one that Hermione hadn't noticed before. It took her a moment to read the name beneath it, for the letters were mingling with Snape's. But then she did read it, and she felt a plummeting sensation in her chest because it was all her fault and she should have been paying attention and now she would be in so much trouble which could have been so easily avoided if she'd only used the brains in her head and picked up the walkie-talkie and warned Snape that the dot bearing _Bellatrix Lestrange's _name was headed his way.

If only.

**_ Author's Note_**

I am aware of the chronological inconsistencies of this and the previous chapters. They are intentional—this day has been an important one, and it is being shown from many different perspectives. Each do not coincide perfectly, time-wise, with each other. So yes, I realised that it was two o'clock with Hermione and night time with Ginny, at the beginning. Try to deal with it. Please, please, please review—by this point of the last fic, there'd already been _thirty-four _reviews—only _twelve _this time. Where'd everybody go? If anyone has suggestions as to how to get this thing read by more people, I'd be glad to hear it—if anybody has a site that it could be linked off of, I'd also be glad to hear it. Any of the above and anything else can be told to me very simply in the form of a "review." (The review counts are from fanfiction,net. I've only got nine on Sink into Your Eyes, and that's almost humiliating. so I didn't want to mention it.)

END OF PART ONE 

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Please review.


	9. Everything or Nothing

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 ****_

Part Two  
The Shadow of the Present

"Angels. They're everywhere...paintings and statues and stained glass windows. They all seem to look alike.  
Heavenly beings with amazing wings. But even greater than the artwork, are the stories people tell,  
about being visited by angels in visions, in dreams, and even in person at the time when they really need it.  
Most of these stories are about angels delivering messages of hope, but sometimes you'll hear a different story—  
about a dark angel, who foreshadows bad luck...or worse."  
Chris Mack

**_ Chapter Eight  
Everything or Nothing _**

—the lights in the compartment dimmed now and flickered...off. Blackness engulfed the four of them and a sharp intake of breath was heard—none were sure whose it was.

Harry blinked and couldn't be sure that he had done so.

"What's going on?" said Ron, sounding quite clearly unnerved. Luna's hand grasped his, though no one could tell.

"Have we broken down?" said Luna curiously. "I know we haven't broken up."

"Shh," said Hermione, and she stood, somehow managing to step on Ron's foot as she did so.

"Ow, Hermione!" said Ron.

"How'd you know that was me?"

"I dunno."

Hermione slid open the compartment door and stuck her head out—all along the train, others were doing the same, though none knew that they were not alone, of course, because they could not see any more of what was going on in the corridor then they could have from in their compartments.

"_Lumos!_" said Hermione now, and her wand flared with light. Others did the same, and soon small specks of glowing brightness could be seen down the length of the train. Soft murmurs of questions filled the air and only Hermione actually stepped out into the corridor to better look round.

Harry followed, with Luna behind and Ron last in their odd line.

"How do we know which way we're going?" Ron said. It seemed odd to the four students that everyone else—the entire school, actually—could not seem to leave their compartments. It was as though some sort of spell kept their feet from stepping into the corridor.

"Towards the driver," said Hermione.

"But which way is that?"

"Don't you pay attention?"

"No," supplied Luna. "Of course not. He's Ronald."

"Oh, thanks, Luna."

"You're welcome."

"Will you all be quiet?" said Harry, an odd feeling in his chest. He was next to Hermione now and actually moved ahead of her, wondering how long the train actually was. It had never seemed this long before.

They continued to walk.

——

_Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "There is simply no considering it," she said, sounding almost sad. "You mustn't return to school. For now, at least."_

_Ginny let out a groan of frustration. "But I feel _fine. _Really. I can't not go to Hogwarts—"_

_"You most certainly can. Not go, I mean. And how many recessions will it take for you to realise that it _doesn't matter _if you feel fine? You feel fine _now _but what about tomorrow? You simply mustn't risk it."_

_Ginny crossed her arms in defiance and blew a stray lock of hair out of her face. "Mum...!" she called to the next room, thinking that of course her mother could make it better._

_"What is it, Ginny?" Mrs Weasley said as she entered the room. She had a dishtowel drying in the kitchen and thus kept her wand pointed behind her._

_"Your daughter refuses to accept that she is not physically able to return to school with her friends."_

_"Ginny..." said Mrs Weasley, looking rather exasperated._

_"Come _on_, Mum. You know I can't miss OWL year."_

_"If you treat yourself the way you're meant to be treated, you _won't_ miss the whole year," said Madam Pomfrey. "Just continue to take the potion I prescribed, and—"_

_Mrs Weasley jumped in at this point, as though this was something she'd been meaning to ask about._

_"About that potion," she said, "is it really as safe as it says on the bottle? I've always thought that Dreamless Sleep potions weren't meant to be used too often—"_

_"This is a variation, Molly," said Madam Pomfrey, sounding as though she'd said this a thousand times already. "It is perfectly safe for nightly use for up to six months—"_

_"And after six months?"_

_"She will not need it for six months. Now if you will excuse me," and Madam Pomfrey drew her wand and Apparated away without another word._

_Ginny blew another errant lock of hair out of her eyes and snarled at nobody._

_"I want to go to school."_

——

The group walked and the whispering escaladed round them into a full chatter, a full hubbub, as such things have been called without particular explanation.

And suddenly Harry felt as if he were walking alone—it did not take much for the bystanders to fade into nothingness, though Ron, Luna, and Hermione surely were more difficult to miss—and the train was the corridor. _The _corridor, the one that had haunted his dreams all through the previous year. How long had it been since he'd thought of that, of the Department of Mysteries?

He shook his head to clear it of the thoughts of Sirius that arose. He had dreamt that Sirius had been caught by Voldemort that day, the day the bell jar fell. And then only a few months later...

He shook his head again, harder, more vehemently. It cleared, but he still felt alone. _Maybe it's cause Ginny's not here._

An odd feeling rose in his heart as he thought it, and he knew at once that it was true. But why _couldn't he see _anyone else?

And then he could—he could see someone else. But not Ron. Not Hermione, not Luna. Not anyone that he could recognise.

A white light appeared in the distance—Harry couldn't tell when it did it...one minute it wasn't there and the next it was, but oddly so. Harry stopped walking and didn't feel Ron walk into his back, though he did do it. He didn't hear Hermione question as to why he'd stopped, didn't hear Luna state that it was dark out here.

The light grew, or perhaps it neared him...it was now as tall as Harry...taller, maybe. It was a person bathed in blinding white light. Harry wondered how he himself had not been blinded, for he could still see as clearly as ever.

The figure stepped towards Harry—who could now see that it was indeed stepping, though it moved with such grace that it seemed to glide.

"Who are you?" Harry said, and he didn't hear Hermione asking who he was talking to, didn't notice Ron looking back over his shoulder worriedly, didn't hear Luna state that it was cold out here.

——

_It was Ginny's birthday today and she was in her bed, alone. What a surprise._

_She crossed her arms over her chest and pouted, feeling dreadfully lonely. Her mother hadn't said a word to her all day, nor had Ron. Harry was probably in Percy's room, sulking as well because of Sirius. Of course, if she had really thought it through, she might have understood that losing someone dear to you is a bit more of a reason to sulk than being alone on your birthday, but she hadn't really thought it through, and she didn't want to. It was her birthday and she deserved not to be bored to death. It wasn't fair._

_Glancing downward, she half-wished that the radio hadn't smashed, just so that the silence could be broken._

_She hated being in bed all day, that was for sure. Perhaps she could..._

_No, her mother would kill her if she got out of bed. But, then again, that's why she wanted Ginny in bed, for her health, so maybe she wouldn't kill her._

_And her mother had seemed busy today, not visiting and all._

_And so Ginny threw the unnecessary covers off of her—it was August, after all: she had only had the blankets on for the comfort they gave—and stood up far too fast, so that she got a bit dizzy. Shaking her head to clear it, Ginny made her way to the door, and—_

_A knock sounded from the other side, jolting Ginny aback._

_"Er, who is it?" she said._

_"Me," said the voice that was Harry's. "Can I come—"_

_He was cut off as she threw open the door, immensely thankful that he hadn't forgotten about her after all._

_"—in?"_

_"Of course you can—" She reached her head up and kissed him, taking him quite aback. He was still taken aback whenever she kissed him. It was amusing, sometimes._

_"Should you be out of bed?" he asked, sounding quite out of breath. "You didn't have to open the door, I could have let myself in—"_

_"Oh, but I wanted to, Harry. You have no idea how boring it is to sit alone in a room, day after—oh, I suppose you do. Why is it that you always _do _have some idea of whatever it is I say you have no idea about?"_

_"We have a lot in common?"_

_Ginny smiled. Harry seemed rather uncomfortable. Ginny realised that the last (and only) time he had ever been in her room had been when he had fallen out of nowhere atop her when he'd arrived at the Burrow. An uncomfortable memory for sure._

_But perhaps there was another reason._

_"Uh, Gin," he said, sitting down on a chair that he had never sat down on before, "happy birthday." He pulled a small handful of flowers out from someplace Ginny hadn't seen, and they were slightly crumpled; perhaps more than slightly._

_Ginny took them from him and sniffed them. "Thank you. Hang on—are these from..."_

_"...the front garden, yes. I didn't really have time to get anything for you. I just realised it was your birthday ten minutes ago."_

_Ginny glanced at the clock; seven forty-one._

_"You heard the clock," she concluded._

_"Yeah. I hadn't even realised that I didn't know your birthday. Feel kinda weird 'bout that. Did I know, and I just forgot?"_

_She shook her head. "No, I don't think you ever knew. Last year we were all preoccupied with your Hearing and I didn't even have a cake—"_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"Oh, did I just sound bitter? I didn't try to, honest, and I'm really not." She looked down at her flowers, and said once again: "Thank you."_

_"Do you like them?" he asked awkwardly. Again, there seemed some deeper reason for his anxiety than the obvious._

_She nodded, and laughed softly. "Well, I planted them, I certainly hope I like them."_

_"Oh. Right."_

_She leaned into him and kissed him once again, and it lasted a while before he pulled back, a curious look in his eye. "You're not contagious, are you?"_

——

"Who are you?" repeated the figure in a ghostly voice, a haunting voice, a voice that seemed more like an echo than a voice in its own right—perhaps it was...perhaps it was only an echo of what Harry had said.

Harry didn't know what to say to this thing, this creature, this—well, the first word that came to mind was _spirit_, but he wasn't entirely sure. He felt that something about this thing was _good, _was simply good. Antithesis of evil kind of feeling; an anti-Dementor of sorts. Another word came to mind, another thing that this thing could be:

_Angel. _And when he thought this word he could see that the being possessed shining wings that could hardly be told apart from its body—bent wings. Its wings were bent.

He trusted it. He didn't know exactly why, but he did. Perhaps it was the wings.

"Harry Potter," Harry said, and the spirit nodded, the angel nodded, whatever it was.

"The world is changing," the spirit said in its voice, chilling Harry's heart and causing the hairs to stand up on the back of his neck. "The world is changing."

Harry nodded, wondering what on earth was going on—he, of course, knew far more of this than the others, who simply thought he had gone mad.

Or maybe he had.

"What is changing?" Harry said.

"The world," said the spirit again. "Light is falling, falling, falling from the earth, and nothing is replacing it."

Harry wasn't sure he understood that quite right.

"What? Wouldn't darkness replace light?"

The spirit shook its head, and what a vaguely head-like head it was—part of Harry thought that it was covered by a white hood but the rest was not so sure.

"Darkness cannot replace light. Nothing can replace light."

"What?" said Harry again, simply lost in the being's words without hope of a way out.

"Have you ever felt nothing, Harry Potter?"

Harry shook his head, not really meaning 'no' but simply not understanding and not finding the words to say so.

"Nothing is what exists when all that exists is nothing," said the spirit. "And nothing is rising."

Harry was silent. And then something clicked in his mind, a word that he thought might be able to explain the spirit's words:

"Oblivion?" he asked, and the spirit nodded.

——

"What was it like?" Harry said, caressing Ginny's hair with his fingers and looking off into the black corners of the moonlit room.

"What was what like?" said Ginny, looking up at his chin, simply because this was the easiest thing to see. This was the second night they had been out here, in the living room, like this. Madam Pomfrey still had not returned. And tonight they felt like talking.

"The possession. When Riddle possessed you."

"I thought I'd told you. Just nothing. Patches of nothing in my memory, as though I'd skipped from one place to the next, or one day to the next, or—"

"But what was it like?" he asked again. "How did you feel?"

A cold wind blew into the room now, though the windows were secured and there was no wind that night (they were not aware of the second part, being indoors).

"Well," said Ginny, "I've grown to hate nothing. I mean, like, to hate oblivion, nothingness. Not to not hate anything. There's a big difference.

"Nothing tormented me, and still does sometimes—in my dreams, I mean. Sometimes I dream that I've disappeared entirely, or that I'm disappearing bit by bit. I just hate nothing."

"Is that what you see when—"

"—I face a boggart?" finished Ginny. She nodded. "Yes. And don't ask me to explain that part. I don't know how it turns into nothingness, but it does and it's just horrible. I would prefer a Dementor."

"So would I," said Harry, and he would wish that he hadn't said that before long.

——

"Evil has grown in its strength, Harry Potter. A great evil has just occurred here today, has begun here today—an evil greater than you will know, such an evil that the world now hangs in its imbalance."

Harry didn't like the sound of that one bit. The figure was fading now, but not fading in the sense that one thinks of fading—it was fading as a sound fades, stretching out into the nothingness, slowly and slowly.

"What am I supposed to do?" said Harry.

"You must fix it."

The figure was nearly gone now, and Harry felt a sudden surge of panic to go along with his haunted heart and numb skin.

"Wait! Who are you? What are you?" He felt as though he were running to keep up with the figure as it sped away from him, but his feet did not move, could not move, and it merely continued to fade.

"You and those around you, Harry Potter, are art—great masterpieces of art. Surely you do not believe that you have painted yourselves?"

And it was gone, along with Harry's consciousness.

——

Harry had a dream then, but he didn't really remember it when he woke up. He dreamt that he was in the Burrow, in Ginny's room, sitting on the bed. Ginny was there, looking at nothing—or at the ceiling, rather—and she was quite disturbed by the extra weight on the bed.

She looked up—"Harry! What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at school!"

Harry blinked, or thought he did, because you can't really blink in a dream or else you'd wake up.

"I dunno," said Harry. "I guess I fell asleep."

Ginny furrowed her brow. "What? How would that make you come back here? You left for the train hours ago—"

"Oh, I'm not here. I'm on the train. All the lights went out and an angel came on board. Then I fell asleep, and here we are in my dream."

"You're not dreaming, Harry," said Ginny, but of course he was.

——

When Harry came to, he felt the cold floor of the train corridor beneath him and saw three worried faces over him—Ron, Luna, Hermione. The lights were back, along with the sound of mystified murmuring from the other students.

"What happened to you?" said Ron.

"Did you have a vision?" said Hermione.

"What was your dream about?" said Luna.

Harry blinked a few times and opened his mouth to speak. He couldn't—so he tried again.

"What happened?" Harry said now. "What happened to the train?"

The faces paled and Harry managed to sit up, leaning on his arms for support. Ron held out a hand to stand the rest of the way, and Harry took it.

Ron didn't let go; first he spoke: "You're not going to like this."

"Like what?"

"Like nothing you've seen before," said Luna softly, sincerely.

"Harry, they found a body," said Hermione, who in particular seemed very unnerved at the moment.

"It was blond," noted Luna. "Something seemed funny, though. Not funny-funny, but strange-funny, you know."

And Harry sort of moved Hermione and Ron to the side, for he had realised that they were blocking something from his sight.

Harry's eyes widened considerably as his sight fell upon the prone figure, its blond hair falling waywardly over the forehead. Blood had pooled beneath it, as if it had been stabbed—perhaps it had. Something was wrong about it, yes, like Luna had said something simply not right. Perhaps it was nothing—perhaps it was everything. Nevertheless...

...it was Malfoy.

It was Malfoy, and he was dead.

And he was dead.

**_ Next Chapter _**

"Not now. Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us—then—"  
Agatha Christie ****

Coming Soon 

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	10. Murder on the Hogwarts Express

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _****

**_Part Two  
The Shadow of the Present_**

"Not now. Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us—then—"  
Agatha Christie ****

**_Chapter Nine  
Murder on the Hogwarts Express _**

_Ginny sat on the couch, alone, and was quite sick of doing so. Where had Harry gone, anyway? He'd said that he'd be right back...but he hadn't been. He'd been gone for a while now._

_An owl swooped into the room through an open window, taking Ginny aback—something unexpected...how unexpected for something to be unexpected._

_It landed on Ron's shoulder, as Ron had just stepped into the room, having seen the owl fly in the window._

_"Another one?" he said to the owl, as if expecting an answer. The owl didn't. Answer, that is._

_"Who's it from?" inquired Ginny, curious. Someone was sending Ron letters—people didn't send Ron letters, unless those people were Harry and Hermione, half of whom were at the Burrow and the other half of whom did not belong to this owl. Well, neither did the first half._

_"Luna," said Ron, and Ginny's brow furrowed. "And before you start going on about how Luna's never written me before, let me say that I _get _that, and I wish that everyone would stop mentioning it..."_

_Ginny's brow furrowed further._

_"And it's really not anything, either. Luna's just trying to see how many letters she can write a single person in a single summer. At least that's what I think she's doing. It's hard to be sure, since the owl leaves so damn quick, and I don't get a chance to ask."_

_"Ron," said Ginny, but he didn't respond. He was staring at the unopened envelope, a faraway look in his eyes._

_"Ron," she said again, and he looked at her this time, jerked out of his reverie._

_"Yeah?"_

_"That's not from Luna."_

_Ron looked at her blankly, and his fingers lost their grip on the envelope; it drifted slowly to the floor, settling by his left foot. He sort of half-smiled in disbelief, sure that he'd heard wrong._

_"What?"_

_——_

The scene had not changed, the players had not moved. Harry was leaning over Malfoy's dead body, and the other three were around him.

"This is utter evil...?" Harry muttered, sounding confuzzled. Hermione probably would have questioned him about the statement, but at that moment Neville Longbottom emerged from the shadows.

He was sobbing openly, and his eyes could not be removed from Malfoy's form—in particular the stab wound that Harry know could see. He hadn't before, hadn't really—he'd thought that the blood would have been logical from a Muggle wound, but he hadn't noticed the wound.

"Neville, are you all right?" said Ron now.

"Did you see it?" Hermione questioned. "Did you see who killed him?" She made to move towards him, to comfort him most likely, but stopped dead in her tracks when the scarlet-silver flashed in his hand.

Drip. Drip.

Neville held a knife, dripping blood from its tip. He sobbed even harder as everyone's attention was drawn to it.

Drip. Drip.

Tears streamed down Neville's face as he looked up now, looked at the looks of horror on the faces round him. Hermione stepped back cautiously, and all the other faces came into focus, the rest of the school.

_Drip, drip, _went the blood, and _drip, drip_, went the tears.

"You killed Malfoy," stated Luna, though that wasn't _exactly _what had happened.

And Neville sobbed his hardest, most heaving sob yet as the words were said aloud. He stared down at the dagger in his hand and turned it round, facing it to his own heart.

"I didn't want to do it," he said. "He made me do it. I don't even remember doing it."

And he made to stab himself, but the knife never connected with his skin.

——

"What," said Ron again, "what do you mean it's not from Luna?"

"That's not Luna's owl. Her owl is black—named Snarky, because it sounds like Snorky but Snorky's her stuffed Snorkack." Ginny said this with the air of one who has been told this fact a thousand times, perhaps every time she'd seen Snarky, by one who has forgotten that she has told the story before—she sounded almost as though she were quoting someone.

"But I've been getting these all summer—since the day that—"

"—you went to her house, yes?" She shook her head. "Doesn't matter; they're not from her."

Ron's brow furrowed. "But who else would send me blank letters everyday? Why would anyone do that?"

And suddenly the two of them looked at each other, and looked at the letter on the floor, and looked back once more, eyes widening.

Ron dashed out of the room, calling for his mother or father—Ginny was close behind him, and nobody would be able to stop her; she scooped up the letter from the floor and ran.

——

"_Accio knife!" _said Luna suddenly. For some unbelievable reason, she had been the only one to come to her senses.

As she caught the knife that sped away from Neville, he looked almost relieved—_almost_. As though he hadn't really wanted to do it, not really.

Neville sobbed once more. He looked up at Luna, and Hermione, and Ron, but Harry in particular, and spoke hesitantly: "He tried to kill me—I really didn't try to do it. I just...it just happened. He was coming at me, and then I had the knife in my hand and...But I don't even remember stabbing him, it was like it was someone else who actually did it..."

Though none of them noticed it, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Luna all let out a breath of relief, of relaxation; perhaps they were thankful that Neville hadn't done what he'd done of his own volition, of his own intent. He hadn't _tried _to do it.

"It's all right," said Hermione. "It's all right."

Neville shook his head and tears flew in all directions. "No. No it's not."

"It will be," said Luna, and there was this indescribable sound of hope in her voice that everyone felt but could not reason.

They continued to comfort and console Neville—at least Ron, Luna, and Hermione did. Harry just looked down at Draco's body and sort of blocked everything else out.

Every year Malfoy played a part into his trip to Hogwarts—except second year, of course, (though one could say that Dobby was Malfoy's elf, who in turn necessitated the flying of the Anglia to school)—and that certainly was true this year. Just like old times, one could say, though of course they would be, in all other respects, absolutely wrong.

Harry didn't know why, but he reached down and ran his fingers just above Malfoy's wound, almost touching but not quite, not quite, not quite...he pulled back.

Something was wrong about this. About everything. And he thought, once again, that perhaps it was because Ginny was not there.

——

_"Mum! Dad!" cried Ginny, running into the kitchen with the envelope in her hand._

_"What is it?" said her mother. Ron had also just arrived, and both he and Ginny were out of breath, even from just the short distance. "Why are you running? Why aren't you lying down, Ginny?"_

_"I think Death Eaters are trying to find the Burrow," Ginny said. "Trying to find Harry."_

_"We know that," said Mr Weasley. "But don't worry, Ginny—they won't be able to. There are spells on the house—"_

_"But aren't those spells supposed to keep out unfriendly messages?" said Ginny. Ron was rather silent._

_"Yes; yes, of course," said Mrs Weasley._

_"Like a gam-spaurd," offered Mr Weasley helpfully._

_"A _what?_" said the other three, even Ron._

_"Er...it's something Muggles use on their tomcooters, to...keep out...unfriendly messages," he finished weakly._

_"Whatever," said Ginny. "But then how did this get through?" She held up the envelope. Mrs Weasley snatched it from her hand in an instant and ripped it open._

_"But Ginny, this is blank—"_

_"I'd never seen that letter's owl before," said Ginny. "And—"_

_"Ginny, I think you might be overreacting," said Mr Weasley, recovering. "Dumbledore assured us that no one can track messages sent to Harry here—or to your mother and I. And you as well, though he wasn't clear on that one—"_

_"But this was sent to _me_," said Ron, speaking up now, and their parents' expressions changed in an instant, considering._

_"I...I'll be right back," said Mr Weasley, and he Disapparated before another word could be said._

_"Dumbledore has to work out these dratted loopholes sometime," muttered Ginny, crossing her arms over her chest. First Privet Drive with the Dementors, and now this. What great plans he has..."_

_"That's _Professor _Dumbledore," said Mrs Weasley weakly. "Now you get back to lying down."_

——

Harry and Ron and Hermione and Luna were back in their compartment; Neville was sitting up by the driver, alone, despite their attempts to stay with him. It was odd now, to be back just how they had been before, as though nothing had happened at all.

"This has been a lovely start to the year," said Luna, and for a moment Harry wasn't sure whether she was kidding or not—it was rather difficult to tell with Luna.

"The best yet," supplied Hermione wryly, peering round the door into the corridor, just to look for something to look for.

Ron sat silently, perhaps wondering when the witch with the cart would come by.

Harry missed Ginny.

...silence. Unbroken by even the students' breathing, for they could not hear that—the silence was far too loud. All they could think of was _What is going on? _and _How did this happen? _And then it—the silence—was broken.

"Wake me when September ends," said Luna resolutely, and she lay her head down on Ron's lap, asleep in a moment.

The others simply looked at her, particularly Ron, who didn't know what to think of this sudden action. And then they, one by one, lay their heads back against their seats and closed their eyes...not sleeping, oh no...just relaxing. And they didn't know why they did it.

——

_The whole thing had resolved itself, really—no cause for alarm, essentially._

_Of course, there _had _been Death Eaters attempting to use the letters to Ron as a means of finding Harry, but it didn't come to anything—when they were discovered, the two Death Eaters responsible—a pair of brothers, it was later disclosed—gave themselves up and turned themselves in. They seemed rather relieved, actually._

_So there had been nothing to worry about, excusing the whole 'Death Eater threat' thingy._

_Things calmed down round the Burrow after that...far too calmed for Ginny's tastes. When things had been resolved no one seemed interested in talking to her—after the initial explaining of what had happened—and she had been alone ever since. Of course, it had only been a day or so, but Ginny felt it had been years since she'd seen Harry. She wondered why he didn't come see her._

_He had a very good reason. She was sure of it. Or at least she had convinced herself that she was sure of it—though she wasn't even sure of _that.

_He would be back._

_Ginny let out a breath of frustration and leaned against her pillow. Her mother had relocated her to her room, and told her she wasn't to leave, apart from the loo—_that _had been an adventure in itself, convincing her mother that she could indeed get up to go to the loo. Ginny didn't want to imagine her mother's alternative._

He'll be back,_ she thought again now, staring off into the incredibly fascinating wall opposite her._

_Of course he would._

——

Harry sat in his room, shivering. It was very cold in here. And somehow, Harry felt, it was warm at the same time.

Harry sat in his room, sweating. It was very warm in here. And somehow, Harry felt, it was cold at the same time.

He was torn, and he didn't know why, because all he wanted to do was go see Ginny. That was all he had wanted to do all day long, and he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He shook his head, and pushed himself off the bed—physically pushed himself, yes. He didn't really think about it, about how hard it was to stand, not right then.

He walked over to the window and opened it—it was too hot in here, yes, far too hot—and a cool breeze of fresh air made him shiver slightly.

He walked to the door and lifted his hand slowly...he grasped the doorknob, determined.

Oh no you don't, _said a voice in his head, and Harry's hand dropped to his side, almost _painfully, _it was so violent a motion. Harry blinked his eyes._

What?_ he thought rubbing his arm. _What did you say?

Of course this was a silly thought, as no one had said anything—

I said you're not to leave the room.

Harry sat back down, and he felt light-headed, tormented by this voice that he had only heard twice...right? Because the voice seemed almost familiar, though...distorted.

Quite frankly, Harry was sick and tired of hearing voices—the kind inside his head, anyway.

——

_Ginny sat in her room, pouting. She was sick and tired of being cooped up in this place, her 'room'—sure, she supposed it _was _her room, so there was no reason for her to have made the quotation marks with her fingers that she had made when she thought the word 'room'...but _still.

All right, that's it,_ Ginny thought, and she stood, making her way to the door. She placed her hand gently, gingerly upon the doorknob, turned, and peeked her head into the hallway—_

_"Oh no you don't,"_ _said her mother's voice from the direction that Ginny _hadn't _looked first. Wasn't it always that way?_

_Ginny let out yet another moan of frustration—it seemed that was all she did, nowadays—and turned on her mum._

_"But mum, I just wanted a bit of fresh air—"_

_"Open the window, then. I said you're _not _to leave the room."_

_Ginny's mum gave her a look then that made Ginny pull her head back into the room glumly and slammed the door._

_——_

The train jolted now, in such a way that is clearly normal but makes everyone worry dreadfully—it brought Harry, Ron, and Hermione, students to attention, making them alert once more, 'awakening' them all even though they had not fallen asleep—except for Luna, of course, who was still calmly dreaming on Ron's lap.

They all breathed in and out harshly a moment before, one by one, determining that nothing was wrong. Then they looked between each other and wondered why they had been doing what they had been doing...relaxing. It seemed now an odd thing to have been doing—Luna had started it, after all, and since when did they emulate Luna?

And so the three of them were awake, truly awake, and alone. Harry realised that it had been quite a long time since the three of them had been together alone—before the bell jar had fallen, before Harry had seen Sirius in the Department of Mysteries...before everything, it seemed.

He missed them in an odd sort of way, the way he felt he would miss a limb—_That's an odd way to think of it, _he thought. But it was true: he didn't _really _feel as if they had been gone, been not-there...a sort of phantom-friend syndrome. And yet when he thought of it, of course they had been missing, and it was quite difficult to do without them.

And, all of a sudden, they were alone no longer.

"And so, at last... we finally meet," said a voice from the compartment door, an odd sort of voice—deep in _both_ meanings of the word—and oddly hesitant, as though the man had trouble...phrasing his words just how he wanted them.

"Who are you?" said Hermione, the first to turn her head. "What are you doing on the train?"

The man smiled grimly and stepped into the compartment, sliding the door closed behind him in a manner which recalled his speech—slow and halting. They could see him better now: he was tallish—Harry would place him at Snape's height—and his hair was longish—shorter than Snape's, longer than Sirius's had been on a good day—and Harry thought that perhaps this man was simply -ish—never quite anything, but...almost, yes, _almost_.

His hair was brown, eyes so small that Harry could not tell their colour... his eyebrows were prominent, though not nearly as noticeable as the cleft on his chin, which was of caricature proportions and slightly off-centre.

"Professor...Morgen," said the man—said Professor Morgen.

"Professor?" said Ron. "The new Defence teacher?"

"Yes...Ronald Weasley," Morgen said. "To answer your...second question, Hermione Granger, I am not on the train. I am..._in_ the train. More specifically, I...am _standing _in the train."

This was the type of thing that most would—incorrectly—interpret as a joke. Morgen, however, seemed—and, indeed, was—entirely serious.

"So...I came here for a reason...and though I won't be able to fulfil that objective..." —he glanced down at Luna for some reason then— "...I do believe that the three of you can...illuminate me on something."

Hermione looked glad to be of help; Ron looked confused; Harry didn't know what he felt about this man.

"Yes?" said Hermione.

"Who was...the boy that was murdered?" Morgen asked.

_That's an odd question to ask, _thought Harry, though perhaps it wasn't; perhaps Morgen was simply new round here, and curious. Perhaps...not.

"His name was Draco Malfoy," said Hermione, her voice a humour-less parody of her know-it-all self.

Morgen nodded, as though he had asked the question just to make sure that they knew the answer, and not for him to find out himself.

"And...the boy with the knife...who was he?"

"N-Neville Longbottom," said Hermione, and the man nodded once more.

"Just...checking," he said, looking at Harry very deeply for reasons the boy could not understand. He turned back to Hermione: "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, and he left the compartment without another word—as the door slid shut, a slow screeching announced that they had arrived at Hogsmeade Station.

**_ Next Chapter  
_**  
"All the flowers of tomorrow are in the seeds of yesterday."   
--Italian Proverb   
**  
Coming Soon **

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Please review.


	11. Paper Flowers

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _

**_Part Two  
The Shadow of the Present_**

"All the flowers of tomorrow are in the seeds of yesterday."  
Italian Proverb

**_ Chapter Ten  
Paper Flowers _**

Ginny stared at the spot on the bed, the spot next to her that she was quite positive had been occupied a moment before.

"Harry?" she said quietly, hesitantly, but no—he was gone, quite gone, and it was as though he had never been there to begin with.

Strange.

Perhaps she was dreaming. She had been so sure, a moment ago, that _he _hadn't been dreaming, but could _she _be doing just that? Could she have fallen asleep without noticing, and was her world about to spin round and have her flying without a broom? Or was this a nightmare, and she would fall and fall and fall into nothing?

Or perhaps she was just going barmy, and that thought comforted Ginny. She reckoned that she _must _be going barmy if the thought of going barmy comforted her, so...she lay back on the bed and tried to go back to sleep. Or, perhaps, to wake up.

——

Time passed at the Burrow, and (contrary to popular belief), it did so at precisely the same speed as in the rest of the world. It just felt so much longer, to Ginny. So very much longer than it really was.

Two weeks, that was it. Two weeks had passed since the others had left, had gone off to Hogwarts without her...of course, there hadn't been much of a difference _before _they left, as no one really had visited her very much to begin with. She felt eleven again, and ignored. She didn't like to feel eleven again.

The only thing that kept Ginny sane (although she had long-since determined that she was not, in fact, just that) was her various attempts to reclaim freedom. She particularly enjoyed the window-escapes, but those ended up badly, more often than not.

She wondered, sometimes, just what she was trying to escape to.

Today was sure to be an interesting escapade, as she had realised something that had never before occurred to her: she was supposed to be at school. And, therefore, she was supposed to be doing magic on a daily basis. And, therefore, her wand was not being monitored. And, therefore, she could use magic.

She smiled as she cast the Disillusionment Charm on herself and opened the door a crack—Fred was guarding, today, and she wondered who they had stationed out in the yard, under the window. Probably Bill. She would have guessed George, but George was likely standing just down the hallway out of sight and communicating stealthily to his twin, for the sake of acting like a spy. He had always liked pretending to be a spy, sneaking round and trying to get by Mum...and the hobby had only increased since he had actually become a spy.

Ginny held her breath as she opened the door—stepped outside—closed it again. Fred didn't notice, he was too busy looking pointedly the other way for some reason. She walked slowly towards the steps, and took absolute care to avoid any points that creaked...she reached the twins' room's landing without being noticed.

And then she heard the voice:

"You look just like her..."

——

Flowers. There were flowers all round her... it was strange, actually, as though the flowers were blocking something... as though they were meant to keep her out.

Petunia furrowed her brow.

"Flowers can't keep people out," she thought, or did she say it aloud? She wasn't sure...

She plunged her arms through them and pushed to the sides, revealing...a memory.

"Come on, Petunia," _she_ said, Lily said. "We're almost there."

"How fast do you think I can go?" said Petunia. "I've got a bloody blindfold on..."

Petunia felt her hand grasped once again—for Lily had let go of it, before—and she was pulled along, pulled towards whatever it was that her sister wanted to show her.

"Lil, tell me right this instant what that thing was, before. That dizzy thing. What did you make me touch?"

"That just brought us here, Pet. It doesn't matter."

"It _does _matter, because I prefer to know when I've been bamboozled into one of your plots. I _don't like _being the butt of your...magical pranks, Lily, and I do mean that."

"Of course you do," said Lily, "of course you like them, I mean. You're kidding yourself if you didn't enjoy that one with the penguin—"

"Don't mention the penguin—"

"But it was so _cute..._"

"I said not to mention the penguin, Lily, or I am stopping right here."

"No matter," said Lily, "we're here."

Petunia felt the blindfold come off of her face, and the bright sunlight invaded her eyes mercilessly. Once her vision had adjusted, Petunia could see...what were they? Ruins?

"You brought me out here to look at a broken down castle?" said Petunia incredulously. "Why on earth—"

"Broken down?" said Lily, sounding confused. "How do you mean? It's not broken down at all, Petunia, this is _Hogwarts._ This is where I go to school."

"_This _is the place you've been talking about for a year? I'd pictured something a bit grander."

"Oh, but it _is _grand, Petunia, if only you could see it...I don't see why you can't. Unless Muggles can't see it..."

"I can see it just fine, _Lily_, there just isn't much of anything to see." Petunia turned round and began to walk away, but stopped. "Where exactly is the way home?" she asked, and Lily, instead of responding, took something from her pocket and touched it to Petunia's skin. She felt a hook behind her navel, and—

_Flowers, flowers, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Petunia knew that that made no sense, but she couldn't exactly figure _why _it made no sense, and so she continued to think it, again and again, as she walked through the field._

_The flowers were beautiful. Tall, and bright-coloured, and wonderful-smelling. At least...most of them were. Hidden under the tall ones were shorter, uglier, smellier ones that were half-dead and falling fast. Petunia knelt down, careful not to crush any of the healthy flowers, and touched one of the ugly ones with a finger._

_"Ouch," she said. "That hurt." And when Petunia looked at her finger, she saw a tiny spot of blood, but the blood was not red, it was silver, almost like a microscopic mirror. Putting her eye right up close, she could see that it _wasn't _a mirror, but was a window._

_"Of course it's a window," said Petunia. "How could I forget?"_

_Looking through the window, she could see herself, (so maybe it was a mirror as well, after all) but she could also see _them, _and she remembered the day as though it were...yesterday._

"Petunia, this is serious," said Lily, and James nodded beside her. "Voldemort is gathering the Dementors to him, and he's going to use them against the Order. You have to be prepared."

"_NO_," said Petunia, "I _don't _have to be prepared, as I'm not a part of your silly order, and I don't have anything to do with Whatever-His-Name-Is. Now, if you would just _go away,_ and leave me be, I have my baby to attend to—would you hear that? The poor boy's crying, he needs his mummy—"

"Pet," said Lily. "You _do _have to worry. You're connected to us. And Voldemort is trying to find us. You need to be as safe as you can be, without alerting the Death Eaters that you know anything about us. And you can't hardly be safe if you can't see the thing that's about to attack you."

"Yeah," said James. "One day I was resting on the couch, and my eyes were closed, and Lily came up behind me and scared me half to death, all because I couldn't see her coming."

"James, please let me handle this."

"Then why did I have to come along? The game was just getting good, you know that—"

"Shush!" said Lily, and James shushed. Lily turned back to Petunia. "We need to do this."

"You're not putting any of your magic spells on me," said Petunia resolutely. "No _sir._"

"You won't feel a thing," said Lily. "Trust me. It's entirely painless. I made sure of that when I created it."

"If you don't let her," said James, "she'll just do it when you're asleep. And I reckon even you wouldn't like Dementors to start running round your dreams."

Petunia trembled slightly, and hesitated.

"Fine," she said. "But you'd better not tell Vernon."

"When do we ever speak to that old—" James began, but was silenced by Lily.

"All right then," she said. "_Verorilus!_" she muttered, and for Petunia blinked woozily for a moment.

"There," said Lily. "Now you'll be able to see Dementors."

Now you'll be able to see flowers, that's what the voice in Petunia's mind said. Because again she was surrounded, and in that open field and all by herself...but no, she wasn't.

In the distance was a girl, and she had long, red hair, and she was running, running away from Petunia. Petunia tried to chase her, but she could not catch up...the girl was too fast, too young, too—

And then the girl stopped, and turned round, and Petunia's breath caught as she neared her...the girl wore a guarded face, and she was out of breath.

"Why are you following me?" said the girl.

"You look just like her..."

——

Ginny stopped, and turned round—the voice had come from the twins' room. It was...it was Petunia. Ginny had completely forgotten about Harry's aunt.

The door was open, for some reason—perhaps Ginny's mother had been in with food or something—and Ginny could see Petunia sitting straight upright in bed, facing Ginny herself...but when Ginny neared the woman, it became clear that her eyes were closed, and that she was asleep.

_And,_ though Ginny, recalling the Charm she'd put on herself, _she couldn't have seen me anyway._

Petunia's eyes snapped open as soon as Ginny's foot passed the threshold, and her breath came in short pants.

"God, you scared the daylights out of me—" the woman said, and then she blinked, and looked round for a moment. "Show yourself! I saw you, girl!"

Ginny was confused; _had _she been seen through the Charm? How was that possible...—anyway, she removed the charm, and Petunia glared at her.

"Why would you do a thing like that to such a poor, and...and _frail _woman as myself? You could have given me a heart attack, you—" But then something changed in Petunia's voice, some strange sound came up through her throat, and she fell silent.

"How are you?" Ginny said, and she felt rather awkward. "You seem to be better—"

"Than what?" said Petunia.

"Than the last time I saw you."

"Oh. Oh, of course," said Petunia, nodding. "That was a while ago, wasn't it, girl?"

"Yes," said Ginny.

"What day is it?" the woman asked. "And in what month?"

"The...fourteenth," said Ginny, "of September."

"Only that long? I feel as though I've been cooped up in this dump for years, at least...perhaps a century or two."

"I know the feeling," said Ginny.

Silence.

"Hang on," said Petunia. "What are you doing here, anyway? Doesn't your...your _school _start at the _beginning _of the month? Why are you still—oh, did they close it down? It's about time, I say—it's been all broken down for _at least _twenty-five years, and yet you all go off every year and somehow manage to return in one piece..."

"I'm sick," said Ginny, rather petulantly. "Something wrong with my head."

Petunia blinked. "Would you mind taking a few steps away, please? And if you're going to go barmy on me, please leave before you do so."

"Not _that _kind of something," Ginny said. "At least...I don't think so."

"Well, you never know, do you? If nutters knew they were nutters, they would find themselves help and the rest of us could breathe easier, but _no..._"

"Why are _you _here, then?" Ginny asked. "You seem fine to me."

"I've no where else to go, of course," said Petunia. "I can't very well return to my house, can I? Not after—"

"I never really knew what happened that day," said Ginny. "Would you mind filling me in? I feel rather...in the dark."

Petunia harrumphed. "The number of times I've had to put myself through the telling of this story..." But really, she seemed glad to have been asked, as though she were spreading the latest bit of gossip instead of the details of her family's demise.

"I was in the kitchen, and all of a sudden there were..._thousands of_...of Dementors, those monstrous things. And then they came in, and I...I ran out, I ran away, but Duddy couldn't see them, nor could Vernon, and they thought I was just going barmy...I don't know how they reasoned the voices, and I don't think they ever will."

"Wait..._you _can see Dementors?" Ginny asked.

"Yes, and I've never felt so much thanks and hatred towards my sister at the same time...why couldn't she have saved my _family_ as well?"

Ginny didn't really understand, but she didn't think that she could, either. So she left it alone.

"I ran out of the place, into the street, and there was this great bird, it popped up in front of me, and I don't know why I did it, but I grabbed hold of its tail, and it took me here. Strangest sensation I've had since...strangest I've had in a long time."

"And how did you...lose your fingernails?" Ginny asked, wincing at the memory.

"Trying to get in the door, of course. You can imagine my terror, can't you? I didn't know where in hell I was, or what had happened, or what was going to happen next...this house was the only thing I could reach. And I _had _to get in, of course, I couldn't just stay out there. So..." She glanced down at her healed fingertips.

"So," Petunia said again. "Why are you here?"

"Trying to escape," said Ginny. "From my room, I mean. I'm supposed to be in bed, but I've been in bed forever, and it gets boring."

Silence, for a time.

"Where is Harry?" said Petunia. "Is he at school? He hasn't come to see me, the ungrateful—" Petunia hesitated, looking at Ginny oddly for a moment, and did not continue.

"Yeah," said Ginny. "I miss him."

"Of course you do. You said you're in love with him. I know what that's like," said Petunia, and Ginny found it hard to think of Petunia and Harry's uncle ever being in love. Petunia's gaze was wistful for a moment, and then her face tightened once more. "If I were you, _that's _where I'd escape to, not to see me. To see him."

"Oh, believe me, I would if I could."

Petunia narrowed her eyes. "And why can't you?"

Ginny smiled in an almost patronising way. "You can't just _go _to Hogwarts, any time you like. You need a Portkey, or else you need a ride. I have neither, unless I was going to ride my broom up to Scotland, which is actually stated as a warning on the label: 'Do not fly this broom to Scotland.' Apparently there's some magical border or something that doesn't allow air-travel."

Petunia blinked. "I'm not even going to ask what any of that meant, because I don't care. But when you _do _end up running away to see him, let him know that he hasn't been the most caring nephew, and he'd better work on that, if he knows what's good for him."

"I'm not going to run away," said Ginny, though she sounded as though she would like nothing more than to sneak her way to Hogwarts.

"Yes you are. Of course you are. Even now, you're thinking about how much you'd love to see him again, about how it really couldn't be _that _hard to do... You'll do it eventually, you mark my words."

"Oh, yeah?" said Ginny. "And how do you know? Did _you _run away to be with Harry's uncle?"

Petunia shook her head, eyes widened almost in shock. "I would _never_. _Ladies_ don't run away."

"Then how do you know?" said Ginny, ignoring what could have been construed as an insult.

Petunia paused a moment, and then closed her eyes, looking very tired. "Because," she said, "I can tell that you don't only _look _just like her."

Her eyes drifted shut, and her dreams continued.

——

_"Why are you following me?" said Lily, stopping with her hands on her waist and glaring at Petunia. "You can't follow me."_

_"Well, I wouldn't follow you," said Petunia, "if I knew where you were going."_

_"I can't tell you," said Lily. "You'd tell Mum and Dad."_

_"You're supposed to be in _bed_. You're lucky if I don't send a letter ahead to that school of yours and tell them to expect you."_

_"I thought you didn't know where I was going," said Lily, narrowing her eyes._

_Petunia blinked, and then noticed her mistake. "Well, it's obvious, isn't it? You're running off to your precious _Potter_, blah blah blah. But your nurse, in the least, won't be very happy about your escapade, will she?"_

_"She won't find out," said Lily, and she began to walk again. "No one will find out."_

_"I'll tell them you're coming, I told you I will." Petunia followed after her sister._

_"You wouldn't touch an owl with a 12-foot pole. You won't tell anyone."_

_Petunia wanted to fire back, but Lily was right. She _wouldn't _touch an owl, and how else would she tell?_

_"You're going to get caught," said Petunia, her lips tight. "And they're going to expel you."_

_"I hardly think that sneaking _to _school is an expellable offence," said Lily. "But I don't care. This is important."_

_"How is this boy so important that you'd risk everything?" said Petunia, who was now too tired to keep up, and stopped walking all together._

_"He just is," said Lily. "And I need to see him."_

_And then...and then she was gone._

**_ Next Chapter_**

"How wonderful is Death!  
Death and his brother Sleep."  
Percy Bysshe Shelley

** Coming Soon **

Intrigued by Yesterday? Check out the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_

Please review.


	12. School Daze

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47_

**_ Part Two  
The Shadow of the Present_**

"How wonderful is Death!  
Death and his brother Sleep."  
Percy Bysshe Shelley

**_ Chapter Eleven  
School Daze _**

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" Ron said once Morgen had left. "What loss? Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't have any idea," she said, which sounded odd coming from her mouth but also for another reason that Harry and Ron didn't really pick up on, and wouldn't.

"He must have meant Malfoy," said Luna logically, who was awake now, laying calmly on Ron's lap and gazing up at his chin, not making any move to move.

"But that's—" began Ron.

"—actually quite logical," said Hermione, who sounded relieved for some reason. "Professor Morgen is new here—he probably figured that Malfoy was our friend."

"Morgen?" said Luna curiously. Everyone turned to her, ready to inform her of what had transpired during her slumber, but she cut them off. "That's a funny name."

"Right," said Hermione. "Of course."

"Harry?" Ron said now, looking at his friend. "You all right?"

Harry realised that he hadn't said anything—he'd just sat there, watching, as though he weren't a part of the events; he wondered why he'd done that.

"Fine," he said.

"Let's go then," said Hermione, eager to be off—Luna, on the other hand, seemed quite dejected to be off of Ron. She got up, however, and the four took their pets and left the train—Harry wondered, for some reason or another, what the train was like when no one was there; he imagined it would feel haunted or at least creepy...still and noiseless, a giant sleeping in the dark.

Shaking his head to clear it, he followed the others to a carriage, and noticed idly that a great number of students exclaimed in surprise...they had seen the thestrals, for the first time. Malfoy's death had, apparently, sunken in rather quickly. Harry didn't think the same would be true for himself—not that that would affect the visibility of the spectral creatures, of course.

——

Harry turned over in his sleep. He was dreaming, dreaming of something...horrible, terrible, if only he knew just what it was.

The world was dark in Harry's dreams, and somehow...swirly. No, that didn't sound right, it didn't describe this feeling...perhaps 'swirling' would be better. Yes. That was it. The world was swirling round Harry in his sleep, and the darkness was absolute.

He wondered, then, how he could tell the world was swirling—which it was—if he couldn't see anything—which he couldn't. He did, somehow, though, and of course dreams don't obey the laws of the mundane, or even the magical. Dreams follow their own laws, and even those they make up as they go along.

And then, the world stopped swirling and a light emerged in the darkness, just a small speck of teasing-light, just something to focus his eyes on. But then...this light was so very bright that when Harry tried to focus on them, his eyes hurt terribly. _But then_, he thought, _I'm dreaming, so how can my eyes hurt?_

Harry didn't think it particularly odd that he knew that he was dreaming. All he knew was that if he _was _dreaming, he was sure to wake up soon because once you are aware in a dream, you can't help waking yourself up. You just can't.

But he _wasn't _awake, not yet. He was walking, almost, yes, now he was walking along a corridor..._the _corridor, the one he'd dreamt about all last year, the one leading to the Department of Mysteries. The small light was still there, though it wasn't anything that fit into the surroundings, not at all.

He walked through the door, and into the circular room...it didn't spin, no, but then it never did in the dreams anyway, did it? But...instead of going straight through, like he used to, and into the Time Room, he turned...he took one of the other doors, and he emerged into the room with the sunken middle, the one with the archway, the one he had seen in the Pensieve, in Snape's memory.

_He pushed Regulus through that veil,_ thought Harry. _Through that veil right there...because he was a vampire. _The whole Black-vampire-thing had still not _really _sunk in with Harry, and he was quite sure now, in his dream, that Dumbledore must have been mistaken, because if _Sirius_ was a vampire, wouldn't Bellatrix have had to push him through the veil, as Snape had done? This made complete sense to Harry, but then dream-logic is always rather unreliable. (Or, on the other hand, it could be _very_ reliable, depending on who you were and whether it liked you much or not.)

Harry nodded sagely, absolutely sure that Dumbledore had simply been wrong. But then, his confidence faltered, if only slightly, when the veil flew up past the archway and was the robe of a Dementor, flying towards Harry at top speed...

And when the veil did that nasty little trick, it left the archway uncovered, and a great, white light shone forth from within. Harry walked closer, closer, and he realised that the Dementor must have been pretty darn stupid to leave him alone like this, but oh well.

As Harry neared the edge of the arch, the whiteness cleared into solid, whiter-than-white shapes of such unspeakable beauty that Harry had to shield his eyes—but then, not looking where he was going, he tripped over the edge of the dais and—what do you know!—toppled right through the arch and into his four-poster bed, breathing harshly.

He had felt something in that last moment that he hoped never to forget...that last precious second once he was through the veil and still asleep...it was a sort of...completeness, a sort of amazing _whole_ feeling that Harry only felt when he was near Ginny.

Unfortunately, he fell back into slumber then, and had forgotten the dream by morning.

——

Time passed at Hogwarts, and (contrary to popular belief), it did so at precisely the same speed as in the rest of the world. It just felt so much longer, to Harry. So very much longer than it really was.

Two weeks, that was it. Two weeks had passed since they had left her, left Ginny, had gone off to Hogwarts without her...and it had been the longest two weeks of Harry's life. Each day, he'd expected her in the common room, at the Gryffindor table, at Quidditch practice, just around the halls...but she wasn't there.

He also knew that Malfoy was missing, but he forgot about that more often than not. It just didn't seem to matter.

Harry walked, now, on his way to the first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year—they should have had a few already, but Morgen had taken ill and no one saw him once, from the Welcoming Feast to the current morning, at breakfast, and everyone was talking about him. The main topic: how likely was it that he had _really_ "taken ill"?

Harry stopped walking. Where was he? This wasn't the way to Defence at all, it was... where was it?

Harry looked round him and couldn't place his location for the life of him. He began walking back where he had come from, and walking and walking, and wondering how on earth he had gotten there. He was...he was in the _dungeon_, as he just noticed, and there was no reason for him to be in the dungeon. He didn't even have Potions anymore...

Harry was worried. Was there a reason he was down here? Had someone tricked him, or trapped him? He couldn't remember, now, the last thing he could remember...that was never a good sign and was confusing to boot.

And then, not paying attention to where he was going, Harry ran straight into Neville Longbottom, who didn't seem the least bit surprised to see him.

"Harry!" said Neville, as though he had been standing there, waiting for Harry to arrive. But then...that didn't fit with what he said very much at all: "I'm...I'm lost, do you know where we are?"

_Then it's not just me_, Harry said, slightly reassured. But still...something felt very foggy in his mind, as though he were dreaming.

And then, finally, things made sense, as yet another familiar face appeared, this one bringing Harry back to reality.

"What are you doing down here, Potter—um. Harry? Neville?" said the voice, and the face it belonged to was freckly and familiar, and belonged to Percy Weasley.

——

_"Welcome, everyone, to a new year at Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall, though she seemed rather uncomfortable saying the words that seemed, to put it one way, not to belong to her at all. "To first years, please note that the forest is—"_

_McGonagall continued on with the announcements, but Harry was not really listening, and neither, it seemed was McGonagall herself. She seemed to be saying the things only because she had to and would much rather have been sitting down and watching someone else do it...namely, Dumbledore._

_Finally, something brought Harry to attention rather strongly:_

_"I am..._pleased_...to announce the new members of our staff this year. Please welcome, students, Professor Morgen, who will fill the post of Defence Against the Dark Teacher—" a bit of odd applause rang through the hall, most likely just the sound of relief at the introduction of anyone other than Umbridge, "We also have a new, interim Potions Master while our..._beloved_ Professor Snape is not with us, Professor McClaggan." Even less applause, this time only from the people who didn't know WHY Snape was absent... didn't know about his disappearance. Hermione looked down at her plate then, feeling guilty all over again._

_"—And, last but not least, the new Hogwarts High Inquisitor, Percy Weasley."_

_The hall was silent, absolutely, heart-poundingly silent. Percy? How had they not noticed him, sitting there at the table? Harry looked at Ron and Hermione, who looked just as surprised as Harry himself. It was almost as though there had been some sort of cloaking spell over Percy that fell off only when McGonagall revealed him to the school...or, of course, they just hadn't been paying attention, which seemed much more likely._

_Not a single hand clapped and most seemed rather worried that Percy would stand for a speech, as Umbridge had done the year before, but he at least spared them of that. Ron sat with his mouth wide, and he was staring at his brother even more fervently than Luna was staring at Ron, from the Ravenclaw table, which is quite an accomplishment. Luna even blinked, once, and Ron did no such thing._

_"Prefects will escort the first years to their dormitories," said McGonagall. "Good night, everyone."_

_Even Hermione was hesitant to get up, then, and was quite astonished. She seemed to be lost in thought, also. But when several of the first years were nearly trampled right in front of them, Hermione forced herself out of her reverie, but refused to be alone on the shore, and so took Ron out of his as well._

_"Well, that was unexpected," said a voice after Ron and Hermione were gone, and Harry looked round to see that Luna was there, watching Percy now that his brother was no longer available. "Who'd have thought that Percival would pursue inquisiting as a career?"_

_"Right," said Harry, unsure of what she'd just said. "I'd better go..."_

——

"I asked you two a question," said Percy, and he was looking very suspiciously at the two of them. "Are you planning something down here?"

"Oh!" said Harry, who realised that he'd been silent for quite a time, "No, it's just...we lost our way."

Percy narrowed his eyes. "Sixth years, losing their way?"

"Er...yes," said Harry. Neville was being very silent, and was looking at Percy in a very odd, implacable way.

Percy continued to survey them for a moment, and a bell rang in the distance. "You're late," he said to the two of them. "You'd best be off to class."

"Yes, sir," said Harry, and he was about to go off, but then he remembered: "Er...Percy?" Percy turned round. "We're kind of...lost, remember?"

"Oh," said Percy. "You were serious."

"Yeah," said Harry. "I was."

"Right then," said Percy after another moment. "What class are you looking for?"

"Defence," said Harry. Neville was being _very _silent, wasn't he? Harry looked round at him, and he was looking at the floor, perhaps studying the flagstones or that bit of grime there...

Percy appeared disbelieving again. "How on _earth _did you lose your way to Defence Against the Dark Arts, Harry? You've been there every week since—"

"Yeah, I know," said Harry, and his thoughts seemed to echo Percy's statements. "But I did, and it doesn't really matter how, does it?"

"Don't take that tone with me, Potter," said Percy, much more business-like suddenly. "Or I'll have to take points."

Harry rolled his eyes and followed his least favourite Weasley brother, and Neville followed Harry, pointedly avoiding looking at everything in particular.

Harry noticed as they went that, somehow, they had ended up rather near the Slytherin Common Room. Now, as they walked up and up and back into the entrance hall and up through the staircase and up towards the Defence classroom, Harry wondered how on _earth_ he could have gone so far awry, and how Neville could have done it as well.

"There you are," said Percy, leaving them off at the doorway. "Don't let it happen again."

"We won't," said Harry, and he pushed open the door into the Defence class...Morgen was standing at the front of the class, looking not at the students but at the clock above the blackboard.

"You are..." the Professor said, and bit his lip a moment, concentrating, "eight minutes and forty-seven seconds late. That will be, four points off of your house... one for each two minute period. You may... take your seats."

Harry and Neville did so, and Hermione muttered to Harry as he sat down: "What on earth took you so long?" in such a voice that Harry was positive that her lips had not moved at all.

"I got lost," said Harry simply.

"_Lost?_" said Hermione, sounding incredulous. "How could you get lost on your way _here?_"

Harry shrugged, and wondered perplexedly why Hermione suddenly widened her eyes and threw her hands up to cover her ears. He was not left in doubt long, however, as a sound then hit his ears that made him nearly fall over out of his seat.

Professor Morgen was at the head of the class, and he had just dragged a fingernail along the blackboard, all the way from the side by the door to the other, and most of the class, having been looking his way, had realised what he was about to do just in time to save themselves—Harry was not so lucky.

"Welcome, class," said Professor Morgen, who turned to the class now as though the nothing had happened. "I am Professor Morgen, and...I'll be teaching you to defend yourself... against the Dark Arts. Or at least... I will if you plan on growing up to be on the... light side. Otherwise, I should assume that... whatever I teach you in this class would be... considered 'Defence Against the... Light Arts,' wouldn't it?"

Harry not only had never thought of it quite that way before, but he didn't really reckon that that was a way that it was supposed to be thought of at all, or even if it made any sense.

"So..." said Morgen," leaning back against the blackboard so that he was sure to get chalk on his back, "I am here to teach you about... how the Dark Arts work, aren't I? Otherwise, how would you...defend yourselves from them? You couldn't. And so... I am here to teach you all of the Psychology... of the Dark Mind." As he said it, the words appeared on the blackboard behind him, his head obscuring the word "Dark" so that it looked as though it could have said "Park," but no one really thought that it did, for some reason.

"You'll notice..." said the Professor, "that I did not have you bring a textbook." Most of the class had been excited about this prospect, after their text-book laden fifth year of studies. Hermione, though also relieved, had also brought last year's text, just in case, and quickly put it back in her bag.

"This," said Morgen, "was because—" and before he could finish the statement, Morgen's head snapped up to the rear of the room. "No..." he muttered, and threw his own hands up over his face to protect himself, though of course it would do no good...

Two wizards in black cloaks and silver masks had entered the room from behind, and were now charging up the classroom with their wands out and aimed at the teacher.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_" they both screamed, and two jets of bright green light hit the teacher in the chest. He keeled over in an instant, and before anyone knew what was happening, the wizards had grabbed the body and disappeared.

Needless to say, the class was in pandemonium.

** _Author's Note _**

I would like to say, _please please please please please _review this fic, if you're reading it, because there has been an _enormous_ review slump on this one, as compared to the previous two fics in the Sequence. At last count, this story only has 21 reviews on fanfiction .net, while "Believe in Yesterday" had—at this point—75 reviews. That's quite a difference, and I know people _are _still reading; the site has recently introduced a free hit counter on stories, so I know people are there. But please, I find it very hard to believe that this story doesn't have _any_ particular impact on your thoughts, and is simply too horrible to even contemplate a moment after reading. (If this is the case, please let me know.)

To inspire some reviews, I've decided to take up the old Yesterday Sequence tradition and hold a contest. Remember those? It's been awhile, though (since chapter six of the second fic, I think) and this one's going to be a bit different.

As you may have noticed, many of the chapter titles in this fic have been, as they say 'original,' meaning I've made them up so it would be difficult to guess where they came from (or simply that they are not from a concrete pre-existing source). As such, that would be a rather lousy contest, wouldn't it?

And so I've come up with something completely different. I have this sort of 'reputation' of being a completely unpredictable writer. In fact, people have told me, "You are a completely unpredictable writer." I've decided that this is the perfect time to test this.

From now until the end of the fic, you will have two 'contest-like-thingies'. To enter, you must leave a review, and let me explain what is to be left:

Contest One:

In a review, you will explain to me what _you_ think is going to happen next, directly after the latest chapter posted. This will continue for every chapter until the one directly before the epilogue (chapter 20, if everything goes according to plan). Then, at the end, whoever has come closest to what is _actually _going to happen next (if only one person reviews, it's kind of no contest) will win a sneak-peak at the fourth fic in the Sequence "Regards from Yesterday." I will post the winners from chapter to chapter, in the author's notes, and if you have stories, I will recommend them to everyone as a sort of "story of the chapter" which doesn't make much sense, but oh well. Sound good? Ah, but that's not all...

Contest Two:

This contest will only be open through the end of part two "The Shadow of the Present" which will be through chapter 14. In this contest, you will (in a review, of course) tell me how you think the fic will _END_. How will it climax? How will it be resolved? Again, whoever gets the closest will be notified in the author's notes of the EPILOGUE and will receive a special sneak-peak of part four, "Regards from Yesterday."

If you enter either contest, please either be sure to leave a signed review, or your email address (if you are on SiYE, please leave the email anyway) so that I can contact you. Also, anyone who enters either contest and is not _completely _off-track will receive a "Yesterday's Tomorrow" wallpaper. Some of you might have won the first two wallpapers (for the first two fics) and this is an excellent opportunity to continue your collection.

PLEASE enter, and if you don't, well...PLEASE review anyway.

Next chapter should be up in five days' time, like usual (this is four in a row! Wow!) So mark your calendars for the...9th of July.

**_ Next Chapter_**

"Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend."  
Agatha Christie

** Coming Soon **

Intrigued by Yesterday? Check out the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_

PLEASE review.


	13. Murder 101

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _**__**

Part Two  
The Shadow of the Present

"Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend."  
Agatha Christie

**_ Chapter Twelve  
Murder 101 _**

"BUT THEY CAN'T HAVE!" screamed a hoarse Hermione, who was in hysterics and repeating herself at the top of her lungs. "THERE'S NO APPARATING OR DISAPPARATING ON HOGWARTS GROUNDS!"

She was standing up and pacing and running and jumping up and down and was, in a word, barmy.

"Hermione!" said Ron, charging up to her and taking her by the forearms. "Pull yourself together, come on! I think there's more important stuff to worry about than how they got away—"

"BUT THERE'S NO—"

Hermione was not the only one who was screaming, of course, as Parvati and Lavender seemed to be having a contest to see who could last the longest, non-stop, without taking a breath. Neville was looking round nervously, though he hadn't left his seat, nor even fallen out of it, which wouldn't have been unexpected for him. Dean Thomas was peering out the window as though, perhaps, they had jumped out while they had all blinked. And Seamus was...well, Seamus hadn't even gotten into NEWT-level Defence Against the Dark Arts, so he was rather uninformed of the crisis.

Soon the pandemonium had escalated into a full-scale panic, and Hermione was trying to wrestle her way out of Ron's arms, shouting about having to go tell Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore's not even here, Hermione!" said Ron, and he didn't know what to do. Harry wasn't doing anything to help—he was just sitting at his desk and staring at the spot where Morgen had fallen. Ron felt hat he could have used the assistance right about now.

Hermione finally managed to scratch Ron's arm in such a way that he let go of her by reflex, but before she could get to the door he had caught hold of her again. "STOP — GOING — BATTY — !" he said, struggling, and finally he had no other choice.

"I'VE — GOT — TO — TELL — DUMBLE —"

He slapped Hermione in the face. She stopped struggling immediately, her eyes wide, and she looked up at him with what at first was a look of disbelief, but slowly and surely her face contorted into rage.

"I'VE GOT TO TELL DUMBLEDORE — JUST AS SOON AS I HEX YOU INTO _OBLIVION!_" said Hermione then, and she drew her wand.

Lucky for Ron, the classroom door opened behind him just before she could say anything that she might... regret. (Or worse—something that she _wouldn't_.)

"Professor!" said Hermione incredulously as the door opened, and she let her wand fall to her side. "You're alive!"

"Quite, Miss..." Morgen stood in the doorway, narrowing his eyes in concentration. "Miss _Granger_."

The room settled down in moments, though no one seemed inclined to return to their seats.

"But how are you...?" said Ron, as Morgen walked over to his desk, sat down, and propped his legs up, seeming to enjoy himself immensely, despite his ever-serious expression.

"I'm fine, thank you," said the professor. "Now, if everyone would... take your seats."

Everyone did.

"Sir," said Hermione, who was absolutely back-to-normal, except for the rage against Ron that she was sure to follow through on later, "how on earth did you survive the Killing Curse?"

"Well," said Morgen, "it's not impossible... is it?" He looked at Harry as he said it, and Harry looked down. "But you're making a few... assumptions, aren't you?"

"Well, I think it's pretty safe to assume that when two Death Eaters come charging into a room and curse you with _the Killing Curse_, you're pretty much a goner. _Sir_," added Hermione hastily.

"Exactly what I mean," said Morgen. "You're assuming not only that those _were..._ Death Eaters... but also that they hit me with the Killing Curse."

"Are you saying that they _didn't _hit you with the Killing Curse?"

"Yes."

"Oh," said Hermione, and everything seemed to make sense in her mind, except for one thing: "But they did."

The professor grinned a very self-amused grin, and crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

"Let's start that scene again from the... beginning, shall we?" he said, and in a moment the lights were extinguished and a projector was in the middle of the classroom, facing the blackboard. Morgen was next to it, then, and tapped it with his wand. The scene played out on the board, as though it had been filmed by Muggle camera.

It began, in slow-motion.

"First—" said Morgen, and he had conjured a large pointer to sprout from the end of his wand. He pointed at the two wizards who were now visible in the back of the room. "As you can see...those masks may be silver, but they are also sparkly. Do Death Eaters wear...sparkly masks?"

The answer was, of course, 'no.'

"Their robes..." he said, pointing at the robes, "are Hogwarts-issue, not Death Eater robes. And their shoes..." He pointed at them. "Are Muggle clown-shoes. Do Death Eaters wear Muggle clown-shoes?"

The answer was, of course, still 'no.'

"And now," said Morgen, as the recording progressed to the point of the 'killing,' "look closely at the wands. Just as the light issues forth...there!"

The image paused, and the class could see quite clearly that the wand turned into a rubber haddock.

Ron was, surprisingly, the first to catch on. "Those were the twins' wands," he said. "The ones they made for the—"

"Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes," said Fred's voice, leaning into the classroom from the open doorway, "is located at ninety-three, Diagon Alley, and the fake wands demonstrated here today are available for the very low price of only five Galleons each—"

"I've asked...these two fine young men to assist me with today's...class," said Morgen. "I believe they performed very convincingly, don't you?"

"We belong in theatre," called George from outside the doorway, trying to get past his twin. "We've always said we missed our calling—"

"Oh my goodness, it's Ronniekins!" said Fred, pointing and waving. "Hi Ronniekins!"

"So you weren't in any danger at all?" said Hermione, narrowing her eyes.

"Nope," said Morgen. "These two had a Portkey ready,

"And we've been only just outside the whole time."

"Ronniekins," said George, "you've really got to control your temper. And a _lady_, too! Mum will disapprove so very much..."

Ron was beet red now, and very much wished that his brothers would go away. Luckily, his wish was granted.

"Well, we've got to run, Ronnie. We have a meeting with the High Inquisitor," said Fred, smirking. "Pleasure doing business with you, professor. See you later, Harry. Hope that doesn't bruise, Hermy."

And then they were gone. The rest of the class—apart from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, that is—were wondering just what in hell was going on.

"So...was there any point in terrifying us all like that?" asked Parvati.

"Oh, yes ma'am, there most definitely was... a point."

The class was silent, as though waiting for him to tell them. He didn't seem very keen on that, though.

"As I said before," said Morgen, "this class is meant to help you... _understand _the mind of Dark wizards. To understand the Dark, you can't very well be... _afraid_ of it, can you?" He looked round the room. "Of course not. And I think we all proved today... just how well we handle ourselves in... extreme situations."

Hermione's hand shot into the air. "That's not fair, sir," she said, indignant. "I've been in _extreme situations _before, and I've never gone off my rocker like that...it was just this time, these circumstances, you can't generalise like that."

"Can't I?" said Morgen, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, I know that you've been in... _anomalous_ situations before. Unexpected, strange, out-of-the-ordinary. But were you ever taken by surprise?"

At the word 'taken,' his wand was somehow in his hand and he was pointing it at Hermione, who said "_Protego!_" before the professor said another word.

He nodded. "Very good, Miss _Expelliarmus!_" And this time he caught her off-guard, and her wand came up into his hand. He smirked. "I guess I can."

Hermione looked furious as he handed her her wand back, and she sat with her arms crossed and her brow furrowed.

Morgen returned to his speech, and he began to walk round the room as he did so. "I'm here to teach you to reason not only how to..._react_ when you encounter the Dark, but _why_ the Dark itself... is Dark, and not Light, nor Grey. Yes, there _is _Grey, Mr Weasley, don't look so... surprised.

"So, class," he continued, "I think that it is rather convenient that we have... our own private madman to observe, don't you?"

"How do you mean?" said Neville suddenly, as though the word 'madman' had stirred something in him that none of the proceedings had managed, and had jolted him back into the land of the living.

"I mean the killer. Whoever it was that... killed our very own student, Mr Malfoy."

"It was..." began Hermione, looking at Neville, but she couldn't finish her sentence.

"It was me," said Neville, "it had to have been me. I don't really remember it, but...I had the knife, didn't I? And I'm the one with the hearing next month..."

"Maybe," said Morgen. "Maybe not."

"No," said Neville, and his eyes were watering and he wouldn't look at the professor, "I definitely am."

"But... _did_ you kill him?" Morgen was now just in front of Neville's desk, leaning down with his arms on the surface.

"I had to have," Neville said, and he was sobbing now. "Who else could have done it?"

Morgen backed away. He was over at his desk, and pulling out a book from a drawer.

"This is your textbook... this year," he said, holding the book aloft. "I didn't have you pick it up yourselves... as it is rather hard to find. Considering it hasn't been published."

The book bore the legend "THE PERFECT MURDER" in large letters on its front...and it was rather shabbily put together, really. It was a small volume, much smaller than the rest of their books, and Harry felt it looked more like one of the novels that Hermione would carry around then an actual textbook. Morgen placed the one in his hand on Neville's desk, and returned to the drawer to bring out more. When Harry got his, he noted the name on the cover, below the title: "Ripley Geostran Morgen."

"You wrote this, Professor?" he asked.

"And he speaks...at last," said Morgen, handing the last of the books to Dean Thomas. "Yes, I wrote it. As you can tell by my name being on the cover. I do wonder how you knew it wasn't my... brother, though." He said this in a tone that indicated that he didn't really wonder it at all.

"You have a brother?" said Harry.

"I might," said Morgen. "What's it to you?"

The professor returned to the front of the class, and the students began to flip through the pages—Harry noted a not-so-very-well-drawn illustration of a Dementor and the rather peculiar chapter heading, "The World According To Poisonous Toadstools."

He blinked. No...the words were still there.

"Please turn to page... forty-two—" began Morgen, but the bell rang before anyone could do so.

"Homework," said Morgen, and a chorus of groans flitted through the students— "Pointedly ignore chapters one, two... and three, and begin on chapter four tonight. Remember not to start on one of... the others, by mistake, or you will be dreadfully confused."

Harry left the room then, though, and he felt that he had never had such a peculiar lesson in all of his life, and that was including the time when—

"There's something strange about that man," said Hermione, as they walked along towards the common room—Defence had been their last lesson today.

"I dunno," said Ron. "He just seemed a bit peculiar to me. But he was fine, wasn't he—ow!"

Hermione had punched him hard in the arm then, and smirked as she caught the books that almost fell out of her grasp.

"That _hurt!_ What was that for?" Ron said, before realising that that was quite clearly the worst thing he could have possibly thought to say...

"_What _was _that _for?" Hermione nearly shrieked. "You _slapped _me, Ron. In case you've forgotten?"

"Oh, right," said Ron, wincing. "Just...don't do it again. Please." He rubbed his arm, but Hermione wasn't looking at that. She punched him again just to be difficult, and this time she caught him right in the knuckles.

"OOOOOOOOOWW!" screamed Ron at the top of his voice, as his fingers...er...bent the wrong way. Harry looked away before he even looked towards it, and winced himself.

"Oh, sorry!" said Hermione urgently. "I didn't hit _that _hard, did I? Goodness, I didn't mean to—"

"You _did too _hit THAT HARD," said Ron, glaring at her, but the voice kind of fell out of him after that, and he just sort of let his hand hang limp for a moment.

"You should go to Madam Pomfrey," said Hermione, looking worriedly at the hand and biting her lip.

"I'd rather not take suggestions from _you _right now, Hermione," said Ron, but then he stopped walking and bit his tongue in pain. "But I guess I have no choice, this once."

He whimpered and nearly fell over, before making a dash in the direction of the Hospital Wing, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

"I really didn't mean to hit him that hard..." said Hermione, sounding sincere. But then, when she had been clear of the sight of his could-almost-be-called-mangled hand, her anger returned, and she felt the sting on her face. "But he _so _deserved it."

"Let's go to the common room," said Harry. "I doubt Ron'll want to see you right now."

"I suppose you're right," said Hermione, and they set off for the seventh floor...

"Wait a minute," said Hermione, pausing. "You got _lost?_" she said suddenly, as though the thought had just jumped up on her once again. "How on _earth_ could you get _lost _on your way to Defence?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. It was weird though. I was down by the Slytherin Common Room all of a sudden, and I didn't know how I'd gotten there."

The words seemed to ring a bell in Hermione's mind, so that he could almost see the tinkling sound come out her ears. "Wait a minute," she said. "That's like when..." But she shook her head to clear it. "No, it couldn't be."

Once they got to the common room, they plopped down on two of the couches and Harry put his bag on a third, in case Ron would join them when he got back. Harry turned, about to say something to Hermione, but then he forgot what it was when he saw his friend already curled up in the seat with "The Perfect Murder" in her hands. Harry saw that she didn't seem to have skipped to chapter four.

Harry opened his own copy and sat down in the chair next to her. He began to read.

—— 

"Yes, all is coming along," said the Dark Lord, smirking at his Death Eaters. "He doesn't even know that he's done it. And he most definitely doesn't know about our... our friend."

"Really?" said Lucius Malfoy, a bit apprehensive. "He doesn't suspect a thing?"

"No," said the Dark Lord. "Not at all." He let out a raucous laugh, then, and the Death Eaters joined in. Everything was going according to plan... he'd finally gotten them separated, yes, but that was almost old-news compared to the recent happenings in the plot. He smirked to himself, now, letting the Death Eaters gloat to each other about who had done the most, who had been the most pivotal, when of course none of them were any more important than each other. They liked to think they were, though.

The Dark Lord stood, then, and made his way out of the room... down the corridor... down the stairwell. In the dungeons, now, and he walked down the lonely corridor... his footsteps echoing hollowly on the vaguely damp floor.

He passed cell after cell after cell until he came to the one at the very end of the corridor, on the left. In there he stood, already alert to the Dark Lord's presence.

"Hello, Severus," said Voldemort then, smirking for what seemed the millionth time that night. He was altogether too happy lately...

Snape was silent as he stood there, arms at his sides in a very prim fashion, and glared back at Voldemort.

"I don't deserve a hello?" said the Dark Lord. "After all I've done for you?"

Snape kept his mouth shut, as though concentrating, and it was almost as though he hadn't even noticed the Dark Lord standing there before him. Voldemort looked behind him to see if there was anything particularly interesting in the cell opposite, but no, there wasn't.

Snape was just being rude.

"Speak, Severus," said Voldemort now, the humour out of his voice. "Beg me to spare your life."

Snape said nothing, only gazed blankly ahead, as though Petrified.

Voldemort was growing impatient. He had come down here to taunt the prisoner, and the prisoner was not responding to his taunts. What to do...

"Fine, then, Severus, I know what you want." And now Voldemort smirked once again. "You want some company, don't you? All right, then. I'll find you some company."

Snape's gaze faltered for a moment, but Voldemort didn't notice. He was already walking away, walking up through the Manor towards the gathering of Death Eaters, ready to give them the order to fetch Severus a playmate. Snape only moved once he heard the shouts of drunken Death Eaters, ecstatic that they were seeing their Master again so soon—when he left them, it was usually for the night.

Then, and only then, did Snape let his muscles relax, and did he sit down on the small 'bed' that had been provided for him. He looked back at the place he had been standing, and carefully removed the flagstone once again, placing it down silently beside the revealed hole. And, from this hiding-place he removed the small, rectangular Muggle item and pressed the button on the side.

"Miss Granger, do you hear me? Miss Granger, can you hear me?"

He released the button of the talkie-walkie with a bit of disgust.

Nothing.

Again.

**_ Author's Notes _**

A bit of a better response than usual... and the group's got 38 new members! Wow! (Though I have to say that's probably to do with advertising and things on other groups, not contests.)

In regards to the contests, there were three correct guesses, for contest 1, two by SilentOne872:

—_We will find out what's happening with Snape._

—_Harry will still miss Ginny, but they won't be reunited - yet._

And one by Tayler:

—_Morgen will come back from the dead, and pretend like nothing ever happened._

Now, this last one isn't _actually _what happened, but I think it's close enough, don't you?

So the score: 2-to-1 Si-lent-1.

Of course, I'm not responding to any of the Contest Two things until the fic is complete...but there were some _interesting _guesses...I'd love to hear more, no matter how crazy and out-there you may think your own would be...after all, this is a pretty crazy and out-there story itself, isn't it?

For a complete table of all correct entries, look in the database section of the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group, which can be found here:

_groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday _

Next chapter should be up on the fourteenth, but I haven't finished it yet, so you never know—but I want to keep the streak going! I think this is five in a row I've posted on time, and I want to make it six!

Please review! It doesn't have to be the most eloquent thing in the world, nor the most complimentary—point out what you liked, disliked, or whatever from the chapter... ask me a question that isn't going to spoil everything, and I will answer it. Authors love reviews, (just as much as Arthurs love plugs—though authors like those too) and it really deflates them to not receive very many, especially after they are _used _to receiving a lot more...it hurts. So please review. Please.

**_ Next Chapter _**

"The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe."  
Emily Brontë ****

Coming Soon 

Intrigued by Yesterday? Join the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_


	14. Life as Usual

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47_

**_ Part Two  
The Shadow of the Present_**

"The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe."  
Emily Brontë

"Perhaps it's impossible to wear an identity without becoming what you pretend to be."  
Orson Scott Card **__**

Chapter Thirteen  
'Life as Usual' 

"Have you seen my Potions text, Harry?" Hermione asked next morning. "I can't seem to find it anywhere, and I know I had it when I touched up McClaggan's essay last night..."

Hermione was quite frantic-looking as Harry came down to the common room. She had been turning all the seats and cushions upside down (sometimes literally) to look for her lost book. It had, apparently, disappeared very recently.

"It's called 'Advanced Potion Making,'" Hermione was telling a timid-looking second year. "And it's by Libatius Borage..." The second-year shook his head no.

It was the first time Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all in separate classes. Or at least, it had been the _first _week. Now it was the third time, and that was still strange.

Ron and Hermione still weren't exactly 'friendly' to each other the next morning, when they parted ways, Ron going towards his NEWT-level (and unfortunately OWL-passed) Divination class, while Hermione headed off to her NEWT-level Potions with the new teacher, McClaggan. Harry, on the other hand, had passed neither of those subjects (to McGonagall's dissatisfaction, no doubt) and had NEWT-level Herbology. He had wondered why Hermione didn't have Herbology as well, but she told him that the Advanced Potions class covered nearly the same material, with the addition of _doing _things with it. It still seemed strange, as this was the same person who had used a time-turner to get to _extra _lessons in third year...

Harry went down to breakfast, then, and had a sort of hollow feeling in his chest while eating. _Something is happening_, that feeling whispered, hushed in secrecy. _Something is coming. _A pause, and then just as Harry was going to stand, going to leave, another thought hit him: _Answers are coming._

_Well, that'll be nice,_ thought Harry. _Answers would be a very nice change, thank you very much..._

So Harry was alone, for the third week in a row, and he made his way down to Greenhouse Four, where the NEWT-level class would be held, and put his bag down next to Neville. Harry tried to think:_ when is Neville's hearing again?_ _October somethingth..._ He wondered why he, Harry, was tried for his Improper Use of Magic after only ten days, while Neville had to wait a month for _murder._ Also, why was Neville even _here?_ Shouldn't he have been taken somewhere to await his trial? Harry strongly doubted that Neville's grandmother had enough influence in Ministry matters to stay something like that...

Class started, and Harry tried to stay interested, tried to pay attention, but it was difficult. He kept thinking of the almost-voice in his head, about the answers...what answers, he wondered? He had so many questions in his head, so many thoughts without solutions...

Shaking his head, Harry reckoned that he wouldn't be able to guess, and even if he could guess the questions, he could never answer them himself.

Harry's attention was slowly losing out to his... his what? Inattention? Sure, but that didn't seem the word... Harry looked round and noticed, rather shockingly, that _Neville _wasn't paying attention either, and Neville loved Herbology. Instead, the boy was looking out of the corner of his eye out of the greenhouse, at something out on the grounds...Harry couldn't see what it was.

Harry nudged Neville in the side, and the boy's head spun round so fast that it would surely hurt before long, and his eyes were wide with something almost like fear.

"Answers?" he said, sounding almost worried. "What answers?"

Harry looked at him very strangely then. _How had he... how could he...?_ But then Professor Sprout spoke:

"The answers to my questions, Neville," she said. "I said, 'What part of this plant must be grated off, to achieve its full affect, and what potion are these an essential part of?'"

Neville blinked a few times, and turned to Sprout, who had somehow managed to be standing right next to them. "Er...I dunno. Sorry."

Sprout blinked. "Are you feeling quite all right, Neville?"

"Er... no. Could I go to the Hospital Wing?" The professor nodded, and Neville rushed out of the Greenhouse, not looking back. Harry watched him go, confused.

The lesson continued.

——

Ron sat by himself in the first-floor Divination classroom, trying (and failing) to understand what the hell Firenze was talking about.

It was something like this, as far as Ron could make out:

Firenze had been laying (Ron couldn't picture the centaur laying very well at all) by the shore of the lake the previous few nights, watching the stars, and he had noticed how _something something something _was brighter than _something something something else_ which meant that _something _might happen _sometime _next month. It had _something_ to do with the heavens and the earth and all that nonsense, and something else to do with Good and Evil, which at least Ron understood—Good was good and evil was bad. That was simple. He just couldn't figure what the stars had to do with it.

When the class ended, Ron was just nearly out the door when Firenze's voice called him: "Ronald Weasley? Could I speak with you for a moment?"

Ron doubled back, rather hesitant, and wondering if he had noticed Ron's lack-of-comprehension... the last thing Ron needed was remedial Divination...

Ron was not the only one hesitant. Firenze also looked very apprehensive, and his brow was furrowed. "Ronald Weasley," he said, "is your friend Harry Potter... all right?"

Ron blinked. "Harry's not in this class—"

"I know that," said Firenze. "My question stands—"

Ron shrugged. "I dunno. He has seemed a bit off lately, but that's to be expected, isn't it—?"

Firenze looked very worried then. "I have seen him in the corridors. He walks as though in a dream. He does not seem only _a bit off_, Ronald Weasley."

Ron shrugged again, feeling a bit (just a bit) worried himself. "Well, what could be wrong with him?"

"I do not know, Ronald Weasley," said Firenze. "I wish that I did. Go now. You will be late."

A bit unsettled, Ron went on to his next class, but was stopped once more in the hallway, this time by Katie Bell.

"Tryouts are Friday," she told him, and Ron remembered then that she had been made Quidditch captain after Angelina left. "You don't have any idea who can play Seeker, do you?"

Ron furrowed his brow. "Seeker? But Harry's—"

"—got a lifelong ban, remember? And Ginny's got her whatever-she's-got, and we're short three spots."

"But Umbridge is—"

"Not here anymore, no, but your brother is," she said. "And no offence, Ron, but he's nearly as bad—"

"_What?_" said Ron. "You can't mean that. Percy would never _torture people—_"

"I mean when it comes to Quidditch," said Katie. "And definitely when it comes to Harry."

"Well, I don't know anyone," said Ron, shaking his head.

"Well _look_," said Katie with an air of finality, and she turned off down a different corridor. Ron had completely forgotten that he had to get to Defence, and he managed to slide through the door just as Morgen was closing it, which had been a minute or two after the bell had sounded, so Ron considered himself lucky. He sat down next to Harry and made a point to pointedly ignore Hermione, because his hand still hurt (even though it really didn't, because Madam Pomfrey had mended it in a moment).

"What's that?" Ron murmured to Harry, pointing at the bag by his own which was obviously not his, as it was _by his own_.

"Neville's," said Harry. "He forgot it in Herbology."

Ron looked round. "Where is he?"

"Hospital Wing."

Ron glanced at Hermione, who was not speaking and was looking very crossly at Professor Morgen, who now turned to address the class.

"Why... would you kill?" he asked.

The class blinked. Yes, the whole class, all at once. What's wrong with that?

No one did anything but stare at the man, because they had simply not expected him to ask that question.

"All right then," said Morgen, "_how... _could you kill? Say you didn't have the... the heart for the Killing Curse? How could you do it?"

Hermione looked round at the other students, almost as though she wished someone else would answer for once. Huffing slightly, she thrust her hand into the air.

"Miss... Granger?"

"Stabbing," she said, and just as the word left her lips it was written on the blackboard in capital printed letters, not script.

"Very good," said Morgen. "A very subtle way to kill a person... stabbing. What else?"

Hermione raised her hand again. Morgen just looked at her, and quirked an eyebrow.

"Shooting."

SHOOTING

"Shooting," said Morgen appraisingly. "A bit too... _boisterous _for my liking."

Ron felt that was an odd way to put it. To his 'liking'?

Hermione looked round the class again, but everyone else was looking at her. She rolled her eyes and said: "Suffocation. Strangulation. Virus. Blunt-force. Poison..."

She continued on for a few minutes, and Ron wasn't the only one that was a bit...perturbed by her knowledge of killing, or at least the _ways_ to kill someone.

The board was soon filled with various ways, including some that Ron could have lived without hearing about—no pun intended.

"There certainly are an awful... lot of ways to kill a person, aren't there?" said Morgen, smirking grimly, but perhaps not grimly enough. "But you still have to deal with the body."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "But if we're talking about Malfoy—"

"Who said that we were...talking about Malfoy?"

"Oh," said Hermione.

"So, class... how would you deal with a dead body?"

Finally, the class seemed ready to participate. "Transfigure it?" suggested Dean. "And then you'd hide it someplace no one would find it—"

"Transfigurations wear off," said Hermione. "And then if you hide it in the woods or something, people might trip over it."

"We're not using magic... remember?" said Morgen.

"You never said that," said Hermione.

"Wrong—I just did."

The class was silent, and then Morgen made his own suggestion: "What if you... keep it?"

The class blinked once again. Hermione said: "But that's not _dealing with _the body, that's... keeping it."

"Isn't that... a way to deal with it?"

"Well, not a very good way—"

"Well, what did our... resident madman do?"

"He _left _the body," said Hermione. "And I thought we weren't talking about Malfoy."

"Who said we weren't... talking about Malfoy?" said Morgen, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "I thought you were observant... Miss Granger."

And then Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Just because I didn't notice, until now, that you didn't actually _say _we weren't talking about Malfoy, _professor_," she said, "doesn't mean I'm unobservant."

"No, of course not," said Morgen. "That's not what I meant... What I meant was that you were under the... impression that he left the body."

"He _did _leave the body," said Hermione. "I saw it with my own eyes."

"Eyes can be misleading," said Morgen, although he truly looked a bit surprised that Hermione didn't know what he did. "Didn't you hear that the body... disappeared before the Express reached Hogsmeade?"

The whole class gasped as one, and most of them audibly. And Morgen looked incredulous.

"Why did you think I didn't... think Mr Longbottom had done it?" he said, almost grinning. "You must have thought I was... quite mad, didn't you?"

But the class wasn't listening anymore. Harry was sort of looking at nothing, Hermione seemed to be in deep concentration, and Lavender and Parvati were whispering to each other fervently.

Then Hermione spoke: "But... why didn't anyone tell us?"

Morgen shrugged, leaning back against the front of his desk. "Perhaps... everyone assumed you'd find out anyway. Perhaps they... didn't want you to find out at all."

"But why?"

Morgen smirked. "You _do _realise that you all are the students... and that the teachers are in charge? I've heard you've gotten this... confused before—"

"Yes, I _do _realise that, but this is our... our _classmate_, I feel that we should have been informed—"

"Ah, but you... _weren't_, so what does it matter?"

The class continued on rather informational-less-ly for a while, but then the bell rang, and Morgen stopped mid-word to say, "Homework! A roll of parchment on this topic...Mr Malfoy's murder. Tell me what... _you think_ really happened. It will be graded for spelling and accuracy. Due Monday."

"Accuracy?" said Hermione, gathering her things. "How can we tell if it's accurate—"

"Oh, I didn't say it...? This is going to be a... project this term. A bit of a... Hogwarts whodunit. We are going to solve the murder."

——

Ron took a different way to the common room than usual. He didn't want to walk with Hermione, and for some reason he just felt like going this way instead.

And so he walked, and the corridor was empty, but for him. No one ever went this way, as it was a very scenic route, but he didn't care.

Thoughts bounced off one another in his head, and he tried to make sense of them. Firenze... Firenze had said that something was wrong with Harry. But what was wrong with him? Ron hadn't really noticed anything particularly strange... except for yesterday.

Ron remembered now, yesterday Harry had gotten lost on the way to Defence. He had never gotten lost before... and then suddenly he did. _That _was something strange, and Ron hadn't even really picked up on it. He wondered what else he had missed.

_Neville was lost too,_ said a voice in Ron's head. _Is there something wrong with him as well?_

Ron's first thought was _no_, because Neville _had _gotten lost before. But then, he had never murdered anyone before... or _sort-of-maybe-might-have _murdered someone.

That was another thing—what had Morgen meant? He had said... he had said that Malfoy's body had disappeared before the train got to the station... well, Neville couldn't have done anything with it, could he? He had been with the driver. And why would anyone _else_ take the body of a murdered person, other than the murderer?

_They wouldn't_, another voice said. And it was right—and Ron was confused.

"Hello, Ronald," said yet another voice, but this one was outside his head, and in front of his face. Ron hadn't been looking where he had been going, not really, and he hadn't noticed that Luna was now just in front of him. If she hadn't spoken, he would have toppled her over.

"Hello, Luna," said Ron rather distractedly. "Er... what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," she said. "I haven't seen you much at all, and I've been watching extra-hard."

Neither spoke for a moment, and while Ron sort of looked at the floor, Luna looked at him.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Luna asked.

"I'm on my way to the common room."

"The common room isn't this way," said Luna.

"I was taking the scenic route," said Ron.

"No, you were taking the long way. The scenic route is the beautiful route. This corridor is hardly beautiful."

Ron sighed slightly, and wondered what Luna wanted.

"Why were you looking for me?" said Ron.

"I was wondering why you've been avoiding me."

"I haven't been avoiding you—"

"Yes, you have. I don't mind. You have your reasons, most likely. I just was wondering what they were."

Ron shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable. "I've been busy."

"With what?"

"What does it matter?"

And Luna's calm face sort of furrowed a little. "You don't need to speak to me like that," she said. "I'm just curious. And besides, I've been waiting for you to ask me to Hogsmeade and you haven't done it yet."

Ron blinked. "Hogsmeade?"

"Yes," said Luna. "It's the village down there, where the train stops—"

"I know what it is," said Ron.

"Then why did you ask?"

"I—" Ron stopped, and fell silent. He didn't want to argue any more. He didn't know what he had been going to say, anyway.

"So," said Luna, "when are you going to ask me to Hogsmeade?"

"I dunno," said Ron, "is that something I really have to do? Like, now?"

"Well, not now, no," said Luna, "but if we're going to be together, we have to be _together _sometimes, you know."

And then Ron blinked once again, and his eyes widened. "Oh, God, Luna, I completely forgot—"

"Forgot what?"

"That we were together."

"But we haven't been," said Luna. "I've hardly seen you at all since the start of term—"

"I mean, I forgot we were _together_," said Ron, and Luna understood that time, and she was taken aback.

"That's not a very nice thing to forget," she said, "and I reckon that if you said that to anyone else, they would dump you right now—but of course they would have had to be going out with you first—"

"Are you going to?" said Ron. "Dump me, I mean?"

"No, of course not," said Luna. "I was just saying what someone else would do. I've been watching other people, you know, since I haven't seen you too much. It's rather boring, really, but you do learn things—"

"Do you want to go to Hogsmeade, Luna?" said Ron then, and he realised how horrible he suddenly felt. He wouldn't have blamed Luna if she dumped him.

"Sure," said Luna, and she smiled a little. They just looked at each other a moment, and then Luna grabbed Ron's arm. "Let's go."

She started pulling him along the corridor, then.

"What?" said Ron. "Now? I didn't mean now—"

"Well, what were you planning on doing?"

"Going to the common room, I said that," said Ron, and it struck him how very fast Luna was going—she was almost running. He nearly tripped over his feet keeping up so that she didn't pull his arm off.

"But wouldn't you rather be in Hogsmeade? It's such a beautiful day—"

"But it's not a Hogsmeade weekend—"

"So?" And then she stopped short, and Ron fell right into her, knocking them both to the floor. He almost reckoned she'd done that on purpose, as she had somehow turned while falling so that she was facing _up_ under him. "If we're going out, Ronald, we're _going out_."

And she reached up, hooked her arms round his neck, and kissed him on the mouth, taking him by surprise; Ron realised that he was laying on top of Luna in the middle of a corridor. He looked round, wondering if anyone was watching.

"No one's watching us, Ronald," she said, and she kissed him again, laughing at the look on his face. "Now let's go out," she said. "Race you!"

And somehow she was already out from under him and running full tilt down the corridor. He stood rather awkwardly and went after her, slowly at first, self-conscious in case anyone was watching, but then gaining on her as he realised he really didn't care.

She ran and ran and he chased and chased all the way out to the entrance hall, and he very nearly had caught up to her when she had slipped out the oak front doors. He went after her, and she was already charging down the grounds, laughing.

But...she wasn't running towards Hogsmeade, which was odd. He wondered where she was going.

"Luna!" he called, but she didn't seem to hear him. "Luna! Slow down!"

And this time she did hear him, and she did slow down, and he caught up to her, out of breath.

"You really can run, you know that?" he said, breathing heavily. "But where are you going? Hogsmeade's not this way—"

"We can't get into Hogsmeade the _normal_ way," said Luna. "It's not a Hogsmeade weekend, like you said before. But I know a different way. A special way."

And Ron blinked. "So do I," he said. "We could have just used Harry's map—"

"But where's the fun in using Harry's map? It's like cheating. No, I know a better way."

Ron somewhat doubted it; what were the chances that Luna had found a passageway that the Marauders hadn't? It didn't seem very likely...

"All right then," said Ron, "just... don't run."

Luna looked him up and down. "You look tired," she said. He laughed.

"Really?" he said. "I hadn't noticed..."

"Well, you do," she said. "And I'll go slow."

She reached out her hand for him to take, and he did, after a second's hesitation. She smiled, and pulled him along, walking slowly now.

"So... where is this... 'special way'?"

"This way," she said, and she was whispering now, for some reason. They were headed towards the Quidditch pitch of all places, and he wondered why.

They were walking very slowly now, almost as though sneaking, and Luna kept a finger over her mouth to keep Ron from speaking. He hadn't a clue what she was doing.

They reached the pitch eventually, and they went inside; Luna led him up into the stands, and he couldn't help it any longer:

"What in the world are we doing, Luna?"

"Going to Hogsmeade." She said it with such simple sincerity that he was hard-pressed to disbelieve it, for some reason, but surely she was simply going even madder than usual.

"Are you all right, Luna?" he said. "Should we go to... the Hospital Wing instead?"

They were walking along one of the rows of seats now, Luna walking atop them as though on a tightrope, or a balance beam, with her arms spread for balance.

"Today's a Hogsmeade day," she said, "not a Hospital Wing day. Maybe tomorrow."

And then, suddenly, she threw herself to the bench, flattened herself out, and rolled to the side, underneath the bench behind into the dark space beneath the stands. Ron blinked. It had been so sudden—

"Come on, Ronald," she said.

"Er...why exactly are we going in there? There's... there's probably spiders, aren't there?"

"Oh, don't be scared, Ronald," assured Luna, "I'll keep you safe."

Ron's cheeks reddened; that hadn't been quite what he'd expected. "But why are we going in there?" he said again.

"We're going to Hogsmeade."

Ron was doubting Luna's sanity then more than he ever had in the past, and he'd never been one to think she wasn't mad, even if he didn't really mind.

Hesitantly, Ron lowered himself down, and when he was flat against the bench, Luna pulled him in to her, and the world was black.

"Now what?" he said.

"We go to Hogsmeade, of course," said Luna, and she muttered,"_Lumos!_" so that her wand lit up, and Ron could see that he had been right, and there _were _spiders in here, and an awful lot of them.

"Just keep your eyes closed, then," said Luna. "And keep hold of my hand."

Ron didn't close his eyes, of course, because he hadn't any idea where they were going and if he had his eyes closed, he wouldn't be able to see. He did take her hand, though.

"Here we are," said Luna after a minute, and she stopped about half-way down the bench they were under, and moved towards the back of the stands. And then... she jumped.

Ron, who had not been expecting this, looked down over the edge and was quite plainly terrified to see that Luna had disappeared. _Where could she have gone? _he thought to himself, and then a voice answered him:

_To Hogsmeade_.

And then Ron, feeling completely foolish jumping out of the back of the Quidditch stands to what appeared to be solid ground about fifty feet below, jumped as well.

——

Harry and Hermione were walking to the common room, and had been for a considerable amount of time before Harry said, "Where's Ron?"

And Hermione looked round then, and noticed that Ron wasn't there.

"He must have not wanted to be near me," she said, almost smirking. "Honestly, though, how long can it hurt to have your knuckles snapped backwards if you have it magically mended five minutes later?"

Harry didn't answer, and they had reached the portrait hole. Hermione said the password and just as they were climbing through the opening, she stopped short.

"I've just remembered something," Hermione said then. "Quick, I've got to show it to you." And then she scrambled the rest of the way through and practically pulled Harry through after her.

"What is it?" he asked, a bit taken aback my her forcefulness.

"Shh," said Hermione, and she led the way to a far secluded corner of the common room; the room was crowded, so nobody noticed them, and when they were seated in the farthest pair of armchairs, Hermione reached into her bag and took out a purple book.

"What is that?" said Harry. It looked like a course book, but it wasn't one that he had.

"It's the potions text," whispered Hermione. She held it out for him to take.

"But I thought you couldn't find your potions text," said Harry, recalling the morning's frazzled search.

"I couldn't. This isn't mine. McClaggan lent it to me when I said mine had disappeared."

"How is he?" said Harry then. "Is he better than Snape?"

"He's nicer, I guess you could say," said Hermione, her gaze fixed on the book in Harry's hands. "But he's just dreadful at teaching. Open it."

Harry did, and he wondered why she was so taken with this potions text—sure she loved books in general, but what was so special about this particular one to merit hushed discussions in the far-reaches of Gryffindor Tower?

"Flip through it."

Harry did, letting the old, frayed pages fall from the right side to the left—and then he understood.

Just about half-way through the book there was a small figure made out of folded parchment, yellowed with age. It was pressed flat, of course, from spending however long inside the book since its creation, but it seemed to have this..._dimension_ to it, perhaps the way it was folded. It looked like...

"Is it an angel?" said Harry, and he knew that this thing looked inherently familiar, even though he had never seen it before—at least, he had never seen _this form_ of it before. He had seen it before in a different form, though...

This was the anti-Dementor, from the train, he was sure of it, although he didn't know how he was sure of it. He just was. He had felt _that _before, too, loads of times, and the odd sureness was eerie, and... and just odd.

"That's what I thought too," said Hermione, and surely she meant the angel, not the anti-Dementor. "But look closely, at the wing."

Harry did, and in a very sharp, almost spiky handwriting, was printed:

** ONYSSIUS  
GOD OF RETRIBUTION **

Harry furrowed his brow. The thing was a _god?_ That seemed a bit strange—

"Weird, huh?" said Hermione, and her face was alight with excitement. "You know what's weirder?"

"What?"

"There _is _no Onyssius. It sounds Greek, doesn't it? But there's no Greek god named Onyssius. It's as though whoever folded this just _made him up_. Isn't that fascinating?"

Harry agreed that it was, but not for reasons anything like Hermione's.

"What I want to know is, who made it? I would reckon that it was someone who used to use this potions text, wouldn't you? But no one reuses course books—unless they buy them from a second-hand shop, not find it in the back of the Potions Dungeon. I don't know where McClaggan found this..."

"Could it have been his?" said Harry. He had never met Professor McClaggan, only seen him at mealtimes, and he seemed... well, he seemed like a very boring person, like a living Binns, but Harry had never seen one of his lessons, so—

"I don't think so. He said he'd just been cleaning up the other night and he found it; he thought it must have been a lucky break, since I needed one today. So it was just like someone _left _it in the Potions Dungeon, but I've never seen it before."

"Then it could be one of the seventh years last year," said Harry, and his mind seemed to be working better than it had in a very long time, now, whether it be the mystery of this figure or—as Harry almost suspected—the very _thought _of this figure.

"I've always had the feeling that Snape disinfects the whole classroom after every term..."

"Well, then what _could _it be? You don't seem to think it was anything at all, as though it just... appeared, or something."

Hermione shook her head. "I dunno." She was looking off into the distance for a minute, in thought, while Harry held the origami figure. He turned it round and looked at it from that angle. It was so... so very much like the anti-Dementor on the train... but when he stepped back in his mind, he could tell that it didn't look like it at all, not really. It just had this connection...

"Wait, what's this?" he said, pointing at a small marking on the back of the wing. It looked like...no, it must have been his eyes or something...

"Is that lightning?" said Hermione, taking the figure back from Harry and peering closely at the marking. "It's... it's a little _off_, somehow, though..." She glanced up at Harry, and then at Harry's forehead. "If you took that..." she was referring to his scar, "...and flipped it, then wrote it again..." She motioned with her fingertip over the mark on the wing, making a quick zig-zag. Then she blinked. "Well, that _is _odd..."

And then a sudden feeling welled up within Harry, almost like the snake from the year before, when he had wanted to attack Dumbledore, but... different. Very different. Almost the opposite. And that feeling was so sharp and sudden that Harry sprang to his feet with the shock of it, and Hermione jumped back a bit, surprised.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I... uh... I'm going to the Owlery. I've got to owl Ginny."

——

"AAAAAHHH!" said Ron as he fell, but then he realised he wasn't falling, and that he was just _standing,_ and Luna was standing next to him giggling into her hand.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We've come to Hogsmeade," said Luna.

"But we weren't anywhere near Hogsmeade—"

"It was magic, silly," said Luna. "Now...where do you want to go first? I rather liked that Hog's Head place last year... though it was a bit dirty. Would you prefer the Three Broomsticks?"

And Ron thought a moment. "We're not supposed to be here," he said.

"Yes, I know, Ronald," said Luna. "It was my idea, after all."

"No, I mean... we're not supposed to be here, and if we go to the Three Broomsticks, someone's sure to see us, won't they?"

"The Hog's Head, then?" said Luna, quirking a pale eyebrow, and Ron nodded.

"Yeah... we might as well, now we're here."

Luna reached out her hand once again, and Ron took it, with less hesitation this time. He looked round.

"So... where are we?" he said.

"Behind the Shrieking Shack," said Luna.

"And... how exactly did you find out about this...shortcut, thing?" said Ron. "You didn't go rolling out of under the Quidditch stands in different places, just guessing, right?"

"Oh, no," said Luna. "My mother created it. When she was at school. It was in her diary. Remember, the one with the room near Dumbledore's office?"

Ron did remember. That had been just after they'd returned from the Riddle House.

"Oh," he said. "But why would she make it so difficult to find?"

"So that not just everyone could use it, of course. She and Dad used to sneak out sometimes, this way, just like we're doing. Dad loved all her shortcuts..."

They walked round the edge of the village, so as not to be seen, and then walked down the street that held the Hog's Head, and Luna opened the door.

"Just like I remember," said Luna. "What do you want to drink? You've always wanted to try a Firewhisky, haven't you?"

"Er... yeah," said Ron. "What'll you have?"

"The same," said Luna, letting go of Ron's hand and walking to find them a table; she sat down and took in a big breath, blew it out, and sent dust flying everywhere from the tabletop. It was really almost alarming.

"Er...two Firewhiskies, please," said Ron to the wizard at the bar. For a moment Ron panicked, because he didn't have any money on him, but then he noticed that somehow he _did _have money on him, in the hand that Luna had been holding... she must have slipped it in when he wasn't paying attention.

The wizard at the bar narrowed his eyes at Ron, as though trying to read his mind and make sure he was of-age, but he gave up rather easily, and pulled two bottles from beneath the bar, handing them over for the gold in Ron's hand.

"Er... thanks," said Ron, and he couldn't help feeling as though the man was watching him the whole way to Luna, and even after he had sat down.

Luna took her bottle from him and popped the cap off, and looked at it admirably—"I've never had a Firewhisky cap before...maybe I'll start a new necklace."

Ron opened his own, but before he could put it to his lips, Luna raised her own bottle, as though making a toast.

"To us," she said then, in a very formal voice and aristocratic voice, "may we never grow boring." Ron snorted—he found it highly unlikely that Luna could ever become 'boring.'

"To us," Ron repeated after a moment's hesitation, and chinked his bottle on Luna's, before tipping it back and taking a swig.

"OOOOOAHHH," he roared, his throat burning as the liquid worked its way down his gullet. His eyes were watering, and quite a few of the patrons were looking at him strangely, including Luna.

"What?" he hissed at her. "It _hurt._"

And then he noticed that her bottle was already empty, and that she was as calm as she had ever been, just looking at him.

"You... you drank it? All of it? How on earth—"

"It wasn't that bad," said Luna. She glanced down at the tabletop. "Could I have your bottle cap?"

——

Harry had tried owling Ginny before, but something had always stopped him. He... he just couldn't give the letter to Hedwig, or he couldn't put quill to parchment to begin with, or his ink bottle would fall over or Hedwig would be out hunting...

But now he was determined, with the new feeling within him. He was different now, different from before, and it had been the anti-Dementor—Onyssius—whatever it was—that had done it, he was positive.

And yes, Hedwig was here, and—Harry checked his bag—yes, he had brought the parchment, and the ink, and the quill, and everything was OK this time.

Harry took a breath, and dipped his quill in the ink, and began to write:

Ginny,

I'm so sorry I haven't been writing to you... you must hate me now... you haven't been writing me either, so I'm just guessing you hate me.

I've tried writing before, but something always went wrong, or I couldn't think of what to say, or... something. Things have been strange here this year Ginny.

I miss you.

I'm reckoning Hermione's told you all about Morgen, and Neville, and Malfoy and everything, so I'm not going to say anything about that stuff... but there's something I know she didn't tell you about, and that's the anti-Dementor.

When we were coming on the train, the lights went out, and we were all trying to get towards the driver to see what was wrong, and then there was this thing.

It was like an angel, I thought, but at the same time more like I dunno how to say it the OPPOSITE of a Dementor. That's why I called it an anti-Dementor.

And it told me all this stuff about darkness and light and nothing and I remember you said something about nothing, and that it was your biggest fear... I think I might understand that better now. But the anti-Dementor didn't really speak very clearly. It was all vague.

And then Hermione just found this origami thing in a book (where else, right?) and it IS the anti-Dementor, I could feel it, even though it doesn't really look like it...

Everything's confusing here, Gin. I hope everything's all right at the Burrow. Please write back.

I love you, Gin.

Love,

Harry

And Harry folded up the parchment as quick as he could and put it in an envelope and tied it to Hedwig's leg and told her, "Take it to Ginny," and there—it was done—he had written to Ginny.

——

Ron and Luna left the Hog's Head soon after, and made their way back to the edge of the village, so that no one would see them while they decided where to go next.

"Where to next?" Ron said.

Luna shrugged. "Where do you want to go, Ronald?"

Ron didn't know; all he did know was that he was definitely enjoying his... _would you call it a date?—_with Luna, much more than he'd imagined he would. He could hardly even remember the problems that he had been mulling over, like Neville, and Malfoy, and Morgen... but, of course, by thinking of how he hadn't been thinking about these things, he started thinking about them again. Then he had an idea.

"Luna," he said, "did you hear about Malfoy's body?"

"That seems an odd place to want to go," said Luna. Then she blinked, and said: "What about it?"

"About how it disappeared."

"No," said Luna. "Did it?"

"Yeah," said Ron, nodding. Then he was curious: "What are you learning in Defence?"

"What did _you _learn last year?"

"Nothing," said Ron. "We had Umbridge—"

"Well, we're not learning much of anything either," said Luna, and she looked a bit downtrodden. "It's strange, really, because all the other classes seem to be learning just fine. It's as though Professor Morgen doesn't like us, or something."

"Really? What's he doing, then?"

"Well, he tends to sit in his desk through most of the class, and we read aloud from his book. He rarely looks at us, and he never looks at me." She seemed very troubled at that point.

"Why not?" Ron said. Luna hesitated for a minute, and then looked out of the corner of her eye:

"Who knows?" she asked.

"I was wondering, though," said Ron, "what you thought happened to Malfoy. I mean, now that you know he went missing."

Luna shrugged. "I think he disappeared."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't help much. You see, I've got to write this essay—"

"Let's go home now," said Luna. "It's getting late. We'd better get back on the grounds before the sun sets."

"Why?" said Ron, and Luna looked at him strangely.

"Don't you know there's a _war _on? You want to be stuck outside of Hogwarts at night?"

"It's barely half-five—"

"We'd still best be going."

And Luna set off then, and didn't say another word until they were back through the castle gates, and then she only said, "Hurry."

Ron was confused. Everything had been going so well, hadn't it? What had gone wrong? He had never seen Luna act all...was it _guarded? _As though she had something to hide? That unnerved him.

They walked in silence for a long time, until they had to part ways, Ron towards Gryffindor and Luna towards Ravenclaw.

"G'night, then, Luna," said Ron rather... as though he were lost in a storm, or something, and he could only see her hazily through the rain and wind, even though she was right beside him.

"Goodnight, Ronald," said Luna, and she stood up on her tip-toes and kissed him on the cheek. She began to walk towards Ravenclaw.

"Wait, Luna," said Ron. She turned round. "First Hogsmeade weekend, then? You and me?"

Luna smiled. "Of course, Ronald."

And then she walked away.

**_ Author's Notes _**

Long chapter, eh? I'm going to try to make them longer than usual so that I can finish the story (seven more chapters or so) adequately, and so that no one is left completely in the dark as to what has happened. Also, quite a number of things have to happen before this fic ends, so...

No accurate contest guesses for this chapter. I apologise for my lack-of-sending-out-wallpapers-to-entrants thus far, as I've been busy (writing this chapter!) You should be getting them within a short time of this chapter going live. However, to those who will receive wallpapers, (anyone who entered), keep guessing, as I'm sure you might be interested in that sneak-preview of _Regards from Yesterday_, yes?

A clarification about the contest: I've realised that I sort of made the contests too specific, and also too vague at the same time. In contest one, I meant to say 'whoever comes closest THE MOST TIMES' will win the sneak-peak, not just whoever comes closest. Also, I've been too specific because somehow I've alienated simple guesses about what will happen, regardless of chapter. These will fall into the newly dubbed "CONTEST THREE" and will work the same as contest one, a la whoever gets the most right. This seems to be what people have been submitting, even though it didn't fit, and those guesses WILL count towards this as well. You just won't find out if you're right for a while.

In other news, a reviewer asked me how, in chapter twelve, Hermione mangled Ron's hand—I guess I was too vague, or something, but here's a play-by-play:

1.) Hermione punches Ron on the arm.

2.) Ron rubs his arm, because it hurt.

3.) Hermione, not looking at him rubbing his arm, punches him AGAIN, in the SAME PLACE, which is now occupied by his HAND.

4.) She hits him in the KNUCKLES.

5.) This HURTS REALLY BAD.

If anyone has ever been punched in the knuckles, they will know that this REALLY hurts. Especially when, as in Ron's case, the knuckles sort of bend backwards... Hermione hit him hard, in just the right (wrong?) spot, and that's how it happened.

I apologise for the confusion. Well, for _that_ bit of it anyway.

Please review.

**_ Next Chapter _**

"There is always an easy solution to every human problem—neat, plausible and wrong."  
H. L. Mencken 

** Coming Soon **

Intrigued by Yesterday? Join the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: _groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday_


	15. Alpha and Omega

THIS STORY IS PRE-HBP. THE SIXTH BOOK WILL NOT INFLUENCE ITS PLOT IN ANY WAY. PLEASE TRY TO READ THIS STORY AS YOU WOULD HAVE BEFORE YOU READ THE SIXTH BOOK.

ANY PLOT POINTS IN THIS STORY THAT IN ANYWAY RESEMBLE ANYTHING FROM HBP ARE COMPLETE COINCIDENCES. I HAVE HAD THIS STORY PLANNED SINCE WELL BEFORE THE BOOK WAS RELEASED. (HOWEVER, I MAY USE SPELLS FROM BOOK SIX IF NECESSARY.)

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_ Potter47 _****

**_ Part Two  
The Shadow of the Present_**

**** "There is always an easy solution to every human problem—neat, plausible and wrong."  
— H. L. Mencken

"It is completely unimportant. That is why it is so interesting."  
— Agatha Christie ****

**_ Chapter Fourteen  
Alpha and Omega _**

Harry woke up next morning feeling a little better. He had owled Ginny... she would owl back, surely, and then he would read what she wrote and it would almost be as though they hadn't not spoken in the past months...

Harry shook his head, thinking back—why _hadn't _he spoken to Ginny in all the time he had spent at the Burrow? It had been... been as though he _couldn't _leave the room, as though he were as bedridden as Ginny... but why?

Harry didn't know, but he felt it would be better to get out of bed, than to continue laying down... and besides, he had to get to breakfast, had to see if Ginny had written back... though surely it would take more than a few hours...

He dressed and left the dormitory, and just as he was emerging from the common room, Harry found a very angry-looking Percy Weasley standing just outside the portrait hole, a crumpled letter in his hand.

"What is this, Potter?" he spat out, his eyes flaring, and held out the letter to Harry, who took it. His eyes widened as he read the words:

Dear Ginny,

I'm so sorry I haven't been writing to you...

Harry swallowed. What was Percy doing with that...?

"How'd you get that?" Harry said, a sudden quickness in his breath.

"No owls are permitted to leave these grounds without a thorough examination," said Percy. "I thought you would have been familiar with this process, as I adopted it from the former High Inquisitor—"

Harry blinked. _'The former High Inquisitor'?_ he thought incredulously. It seemed that Percy's opinions changed rather quickly, directly related to his position of power. When he had been below Umbridge, he had practically worshipped her along with Fudge, but now that she was off in her Centaur-free Happy Place, she was only the 'former High Inquisitor...'

"I—I didn't know that they were still doing that—"

"No excuse, Harry, no excuse!" said Percy, waving the envelope back and forth angrily. "Why were you writing to my sister? What did you mean, an 'anti-Dementor'? There's no such thing as an anti-Dementor, is Hagrid really that horrible a teacher nowadays? Or is it the new Defence teacher, Morgen, is he feeding the students lies? And what do you mean, you're _sorry for not writing,_ that you _miss _Ginny, that you _love her..._?"

Harry swallowed again. Percy was asking too many questions, and Harry couldn't answer them all, not that he would want to. But the one he could answer...

"I said I love her because I do," said Harry defensively. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"I most certainly do!" said Percy, and he threw the letter down to the flagstone in anger. "I will not have you corrupting my sister as you've corrupted the rest of my family, how you've corrupted Ron! And if you _do _love her, then you'd better well be treating her rightly, and that's not what you've gotten across in this letter of yours—"

"I'm not _corrupting _anyone, Percy," said Harry, and he was angry now too, very angry. "And it's no choice of yours what Ginny does, especially after how _you've_ treated your family—"

"I've treated my family just fine, thank you!" said Percy, and they were both speaking very, very loudly now. "My perfect little family of Dumbledore-cronies, Potter-worshippers and Muggle-lovers!"

"Oh, so you don't like Muggles now? Since when?"

Percy ignored him. "I will not sit back and watch my family fall even farther from grace! You will not be seeing Ginny again—"

"Oh, and we were _so _looking forward to that Hogsmeade weekend, too," said Harry sarcastically. "Ginny's not _here _Percy, you know that, she's at the Burrow, sick in bed. You know that, right? Don't you even care about that? Or did you think she was just so very corrupted that I'd tricked her into not even coming to Hogwarts somehow?"

"Of course I care about Ginny's well-being," said Percy, acting defensively himself now. "I sent her a card not two weeks ago—"

"She's been sick for months!" said Harry. "Oh, never mind Ginny, how do you think I've been going about _corrupting_ the twins, and Charlie, and Bill? How about the ghoul in the attic? The gnomes? How've I been messing with _them_, Percy?"

Percy turned up his nose and looked down at Harry through the very bottoms of his spectacles. "Don't you yell at me, Potter. Detention, for the remainder of the week, for you. Who's your least favourite teacher?"

He's not very good at this detention thing, is he?

"Snape," said Harry. Percy sneered at him.

"Next least."

"McGonagall," Harry lied.

"Right then," said Percy, "detention for tonight, tomorrow, and Friday, with Professor _Morgen_." He smirked. "You didn't think you could fool me, did you, Potter?"

Harry rolled his eyes slightly, and said, "Of course not. Damn it, Professor Morgen. I hate him almost as much as Snape." He paused. "Can I go now? I have to get to breakfast, or I'll be late."

"Fine—six o'clock," said Percy, and he stormed down the corridor. Harry watched him go, and then scooped the envelope of the floor, and walked towards the Great Hall.

——

_Draco Malfoy's murder_, Ron wrote carefully atop the top of his parchment, _was no accident._

He bit his lip, wondering if that was the right way to put it.

Looking up from the parchment, he narrowed his eyes at Hermione across the breakfast table. Surely _she _would have her essay all finished, and had already figured out the whole mystery surrounding Malfoy's death. The disadvantage of not being on speaking terms with Hermione was quite clear: no free homework. He had to write his essay without any assistance—and that was why he was starting now, when it was not due until Monday.

He looked back down at his parchment, contemplated changing the first sentence, but with no clear alternative, he left it as it was.

He dipped his quill again.

It was a murder. And that means someone killed him.

Ron shook his head; he was coming off as stupid, he knew it, but he really had no idea of what to write. Glaring once again at Hermione, he resolved to make up with her before Monday, and stashed the parchment in his back, along with his ink and quill, and left the Great Hall—

"Hello, Ronald," said Luna, and Ron's first thought was that she was in front of him, so he stopped short, but it turned out she was behind him, so she walked into his back. She didn't make a comment on this, however, and simply extricated herself quickly and started walking along beside him.

"How've you been?" she said, and it struck Ron that she seemed in a much better mood than she had when they'd last parted. He idly wondered why she'd gotten all cold all of a sudden, but dropped the train of thought, thankful that unlike Hermione, Luna got over these things rather quickly.

"Fine," he said. She took his hand in hers, then, and began swinging them a bit wildly. He looked round instinctively to see if anyone was looking.

"So..." began Luna, "what do you want to do today?"

Ron blinked. "We have—classes—"

"Of course we do," said Luna, nodding. "So what do you want to do today?"

"I want to go to class—"

"No you don't," said Luna. "What have you learned in your classes this year anyway?"

Ron's first thought was: _How to recognise Muggle clown shoes,_ but then he thought of the whole Malfoy thing, which he figured was more important.

It struck him, though, that apart from Defence, he hadn't learned much at all. And he hadn't really learned much Defence, either, just... other things, that happened to be in that class.

"Oh, I know," said Luna, then, and she pulled Ron off into a broom cupboard on the side of the hall, and slammed the door behind him.

"Er..." said Ron, wondering if perhaps Luna thought it was the time in their relationship for another snogging session—he remembered that night on the porch of Luna's house, and wondered how he could have forgotten it.

"Where are you?" he said, then, as it was very dark in the broom cupboard.

"_Lumos!_" said Luna, and her wand lit up, and she said: "Hex me."

Ron blinked.

"What?"

"Hex me."

Was 'hex' some sort of slang for 'kiss,' Ron wondered? He'd never heard it before...

"You know, Luna, someone'll find us if we stay in here—"

"Then hurry up and hex me, get it over with."

"OK, you've lost me, Luna. Why do you want me to hex you?"

"So that we can spend the day in the Hospital Wing, of course," said Luna. "I've always thought it was very romantic—"

Ron blinked once again.

"You want me to hex you... so we can spend the day in the Hospital Wing."

"Yes, that's what I just said."

"No!" said Ron, then, once he was sure she meant it. "I'm not going to... to..."

"To hex me?"

"Yes!"

Luna looked disappointed. "But if I hex myself, then Madam Pomfrey might know the difference..."

Ron put his hands in his face, wondering if perhaps he was still asleep and this was a dream, because it wasn't making any sense and he thought he saw penguins. Then he noticed they were Luna's new earrings.

Luna noticed his gaze. "My grandfather gave them to me, do you like them?"

"Er... yeah, Luna," said Ron, nodding. And then: "Well, I guess we'd better get to class—"

"Wait a moment," said Luna, and she grabbed his sleeve as he turned to leave—he looked back at her, and saw that she had a very serious expression on her face. She spoke in an almost frightened voice: "I don't want to go to class."

Ron looked at her differently, now, wondering why she was so... different, all of a sudden. "Why?" said Ron, and Luna didn't answer.

"Hex me," she said again. "Or would you mind very much if I hexed you?"

Ron stood silent for a moment, and then: "Well, if you really don't want to go to class..." He wondered why, once again, and thought that secrets probably weren't a good thing in their relationship, but right now he didn't care because he didn't like that look on Luna's face; it was just wrong. "But which hex are you planning on using—?"

"Oh, nothing too painful," said Luna, and she seemed a bit more cheerful—Ron would have thought she had been putting him on, if not for the slight tremble at the end of 'painful.'

Luna pointed her wand at him, and said:

"_Avada Ked_—"

"_WHAT?_" said Ron, and she stopped before completing the hex.

"What, what?" said Luna, confused.

"You were going to kill me!" said Ron, and he began fumbling for the doorknob—

"Of course I wasn't!" said Luna. "I don't hate you, I could never kill you! I was trying to give you a nosebleed!"

Ron couldn't breathe for a moment, and he attempted to understand Luna's logic—not one of his better ideas—but then gave up and found his voice and said: "Just... use something else."

"All right, if you're uncomfortable," said Luna more pleasantly. She thought a moment and said:

"_Fodiovelius!_" she said, and Ron instantly felt a thousand tiny pins stick into his skin, as though he were stung by an entire horde of bees at once. He couldn't speak, and his robes were itching terribly. His eyes began to water... He couldn't move, it hurt so much...

"Oh, maybe we should have done this a little nearer to the Hospital Wing," suggested Luna, and then: "Oh, well. _Mobilicorpus!_"

Ron lifted a bit off the ground, which was oddly pleasant, and Luna carefully manoeuvred them so that she could look out first and make sure no one was nearby.

"Coast is clear," she whispered, and luckily managed not to bump Ron's head on the top of the doorway.

Ron wanted both to be let down and to walk himself and also to scratch behind his knee, but both were impossible in his current state. He wondered just why he'd allowed her to do this to him; just to skive off a couple of classes? Was this _really _worth it?

Ron reckoned it probably wasn't, but didn't really mind, for some reason.

——

Harry sat down next to Hermione in Charms class, and didn't really look at anything—he was still fuming from his encounter with Percy, and was trying to think of some alternative way of contacting Ginny—

"Where's Ron?" said Hermione curiously from beside him, and Harry noticed that Ron was indeed not there.

"I dunno," said Harry. And then: "I thought you weren't speaking to him."

"I'm not, but why isn't he here?"

"I said I dunno," said Harry, and he turned back to nothing, thinking about Ginny, and the anti-Dementor, and Percy.

Hermione frowned at him, and then, a few minutes of silence later, when tiny Professor Flitwick was closing the classroom door, Hermione said: "Neville's missing too."

"Isn't he still in the Hospital Wing?" said Harry.

"Oh," said Hermione, looking at Harry strangely. "Right."

Later on in the class, after Flitwick had assigned them all the _Aguamenti _Charm to start practicing, Hermione said to Harry:

"I think I might have figured something out."

Harry looked up with interest, then, and wondered what it was; there were an awful lot of things that needed figuring out, and only so many of them had anything to do with Hermione.

"What?" he said.

"You know how you've been a bit... out of it, lately? You've noticed, right?"

"A bit," said Harry. "I've been preoccupied—"

"No, I mean like wandering around and getting lost and stuff like that." Hermione spoke very quickly and quietly, so that no one else would hear.

"Yeah," said Harry, somewhat begrudgingly.

"And also... you know how Neville doesn't remember killing Malfoy, but we all saw him with the knife, and then the body disappeared and everything?"

"Yeah, I'm not about to forget—"

"Harry, I think you're being possessed."

Silence—a long, long while and Harry just sort of stared there and didn't do anything. Hermione said, "_Aguamenti!_" when Flitwick wandered by, and a stream of clear water spouted forth from her wand into the target goblet.

"Well done, Miss Granger!" said the professor, and he moved on round the rest of the class.

"Did you hear me, Harry?" said Hermione, although it was quite clear that he had.

"You mean like last year, when we thought I was..."

"Yes," said Hermione, still hurriedly, "and no. Last year you _weren't, _were you, you didn't have those blackouts Ginny talked about, you didn't just find yourself in a place and not know how you'd got there." She stopped to let the words sink in. "But _this year_..."

Harry swallowed. He remembered suddenly the conversation he'd had inside his head with Voldemort, back on Privet Drive. _Has dear Ginny not informed you of what it is like to be possessed? _Voldemort had said..._ Irrelevant, I suppose. But this isn't possession, per se. You would not be conscious if this was possession. It's more of a... mental conversation..._

"And I think the same thing's happening to _Neville_, though I don't know how, really... I mean, he doesn't have the scar, obviously... but I think he's being possessed as well, and that's why _he _got lost too, and that's why he doesn't remember killing Malfoy—but why would Voldemort want Malfoy dead, I wonder...?"

"No, no, you're not pronouncing it correctly, Mr Finnegan, it's '_AH-gwa-MEN-tee,' _not _—_"

"I cann't help it, that's my accent—"

Harry stared at Hermione for a few minutes while the pieces fit together in his head... it made too much sense... far too much sense...

"What do I do?" he said, then, and his eyes were wide.

"You have to tell Dumbledore," said Hermione promptly.

"Dumbledore," said Harry, nodding. "Right." But then: "Where is Dumbledore?"

Hermione frowned again. "Oh, yes, I'd forgotten..."

"Well who do I tell then?"

Hermione thought for a long while, and said, "Professor McGonagall would be the next choice, wouldn't she?"

"Right," said Harry. "Sure. Of course. I'll tell her right after—"

"You should tell her now, Harry, I'm sure Flitwick would excuse you."

——

"But what _happened _to him, Miss Lovegood, one does not simply become stung by a thousand bees, they have to get that way—"

"He was hexed, I told you Madam Pomfrey, we didn't see who it was, and they were gone soon after—"

"Yes, well," said Madam Pomfrey rather stuffily, "he'll be staying here the rest of the day, _in bed_, no standing except for the loo—"

"We know," said Luna. "I'll wait with him."

Madam Pomfrey looked at Luna suspiciously, perhaps because she was used to much more protesting. Then she turned away and went into her office, shutting the door behind her with a soft _click_.

Luna smiled.

"So," she said. "We've got an entire day to spend together, and no one can say anything because we have been ordered to stay put." She breathed in deeply. "I love the Hospital Wing..."

"You're mad, Luna," said Ron, but it was almost an endearment and not at all an insult.

"How are you?" she said. "She fixed you all up, right?"

"Yeah," said Ron, nodding and enjoying the feel of sting-less skin rubbing against the pillow. "Yeah, but if we ever do this again—"

"I'll be the hex-ee, sure thing," said Luna, nodding and watching him fondly. Ron squirmed slightly under her gaze and said:

"So... erm... what do we do now?"

"What do you want to do now?"

"I dunno," said Ron. Then, after a moment: "Why were you so eager to get out of class?"

For a moment, Luna's face hardened and it looked as though she was going to brush it off again, or change the subject, but then she seemed to decide against it.

"I don't like Defence against the Dark Arts this year," she said quietly.

"Why?" said Ron. "I mean, Morgen's a nutter, sure, but he's much better than Umbridge—"

Luna bit her lip, and said: "I don't like him very much anymore."

"Why, what did he do?"

Luna hesitated once again. "He... well, I told you yesterday, he doesn't ever look at me in class. And he never seems to teach us anything. And... and I ran into him last night—"

"What did he say?" said Ron.

"Nothing!" said Luna, quite louder than she had been speaking before, and she seemed really quite upset. "Nothing at all, he just stood back up and kept walking—"

"Stood back up?"

"Yes, he fell when I ran into him—"

Ron closed his eyes and laughed—he couldn't help it—he leaned his head back and let loose a great roar of laughter, and couldn't bring himself to stop.

At first Luna almost glared at him, which was a very un-Luna-ish thing to do, but then her mouth quirked into a small smile.

"I guess it _would _have been kind of funny," she said. Then she added: "...if I was watching it and wasn't me and it didn't hurt so much."

Ron kept laughing, although he did calm down a bit, and Luna could tell that he wasn't laughing _at _her, but sort of... alongside her, even though she wasn't laughing.

Finally, he was silenced as a voice spoke:

"Will you lot be quiet, I'm trying to sleep—?"

Ron and Luna looked, quickly—the former propping himself up on his arms—to the bed beside Ron's, and saw that it was occupied by none other than—

"Neville!" said Ron. "I didn't realise you were there, I didn't hear you snoring or anything—but then you haven't been snoring much lately, have you?—what are you in for?"

"I'm sick," said Neville, and he sounded it. "I've been here since yesterday—"

"Oh, right," said Ron, feeling rather guilty that he'd forgotten about Neville's empty bed the night before. "You feeling any better?"

"No."

Luna spoke now: "But usually Madam Pomfrey fixes people in a jiffy so they get to spend a few days in here and don't have to feel yucky—"

"Well, she couldn't fix me," said Neville, almost defensively, almost sadly. Ron was quite sure he heard Luna mutter "_Just like Humpty,_" but he didn't have a clue what that meant.

"Does she have any idea what's wrong?" said Ron.

Neville shook his head, and then he hesitated, and said:

"Well, she thought maybe it might be all in my head," he said. "But I don't think so—"

"I've been sick in my head before," said Luna sympathetically. "It was terrible, and Harp—" She stopped abruptly and didn't seem to want to start again, as she was pressing her lips together quite firmly.

"Too bad, mate," said Ron finally. "Well, we'll let you get back to your sleeping, then."

Neville didn't say 'thank you'—instead, he rolled over and began snoring elaborately. Ron furrowed his brow at this, as Neville had been silent a moment before.

——

Harry found, when he reached McGonagall's office—she was still using the one near the Transfiguration classroom for some reason—that the door was already open.

"Hello?" he said as he poked his head inside. He was met with the rather unexpected sight of a tabby cat leaping from the very top of a bookshelf down upon an unsuspecting mouse on the floor, which squeaked like a chew toy as the feline landed.

"Professor!" said Harry, taken aback. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as the cat stared up at him with wide eyes, and then he said: "I guess I'll come back later—"

He pulled his head back out of the office—

"Wait, Potter," said Professor McGonagall's voice, "come inside." Harry did, and saw the headmistress stuff something white into her robes just as she was turning round to sit at her desk.

"Close the door," said McGonagall, and Harry did, somewhat reluctantly.

"Have a seat," she said, and Harry did, somewhat reluctantly.

"What is it, Potter?"

"I think I'm being possessed."

McGonagall blinked.

"Please tell me I heard wrong—"

Harry explained the predicament, and just as he was about to get to the part about Neville, there was a knock on the door, and McGonagall looked like she wanted to yell for the person to go away.

"Yes?" she said in a forced-polite voice.

The door opened and in stepped a Ravenclaw that Harry had seen before but never spoken to.

"Headmistress," he said urgently, "Orla Quirke—! She—she turned me into a knut! No one believed me—"

McGonagall raised an eyebrow at him, and said, "Mr Ackerly, you are most definitely _not_ a knut—"

"Well, it got better," said Ackerly hurriedly, but McGonagall, not in the mood for such things, slammed the door in his face with her wand without such a trivial thing as preamble—luckily, he managed to get his head out of the way.

"I am a bit... overwhelmed at the moment, as you can see, Potter," said McGonagall, smiling a very tight, forced. "And as for your apparent possession... well, I suggest working on your Occlumency the best you can, but I don't really have any other suggestions—I'll let the Headmaster know. Now please, excuse me, and... please don't tell anyone what you saw a moment ago—"

She ushered him out the door quickly, and Harry once again wondered where Dumbledore was, and why he wasn't helping McGonagall at all with the running of the school.

——

Time passed surprisingly quickly for Ron and Luna, and afterwards Ron couldn't be sure just what they'd talked about the whole time. He had a feeling that a great deal of the conversation revolved around Snorkacks and marshmallows and other things that made him wonder _How in the world did we start talking about this?_

Before long, the regular day of classes had ended, and Harry and Hermione entered the Hospital Wing.

"We heard you'd been attacked," said Harry, and there was a slightly _different _air about him than he'd had recently, a bit more like himself. Hermione was biting her lip and seemed to be avoiding looking at Ron, who in turn avoided looking at her.

"Yeah, it'd probably be one of the Slytherins," said Ron, trying not to trip himself up. Luna gave him a _We've got a secret _look that made him feel very strange inside.

"Ronald's going to pay them back, though," said Luna, smiling slightly. "He was talking about how he was going to look up a spell to turn Goyle into a baboon—"

Ron almost laughed but managed to hold it in. Hermione said, then:

"It's lucky you found him, Luna, stuffed in that broom cupboard and all." She seemed almost suspicious.

Ron wondered how the story had spread when nobody had been watching.

"Yes, it was lucky, wasn't it?"

The four of them spoke, on and off, about somethings and nothings, and everyone seemed to feel that everyone else was hiding something. Ron couldn't understand this feeling, as Harry and Hermione had never hid anything from him before. Unless... they didn't want to say it in front of Luna...

"How's Neville doing?" said Harry, then, motioning towards Neville's bed—the snoring had stopped once again, Ron noticed.

"He woke up for a few minutes a while ago... said he was doing dreadful..."

And then Harry's head seemed to quirk slightly and he turned round, looking up at the clock on the wall—

"Oh, damn, I'm going to be late—"

"Late?" said Ron.

"You mean you're going to die?" said Luna curiously.

"Yeah—I mean, no, Luna—yeah, Ron, I've got a detention with Morgen—"

"What'd you do to him?"

"Nothing," said Harry, and before he could elaborate, he dashed off out of the wing.

—— 

Harry arrived at Morgen's office door, slightly out of breath, and knocked on door just as a grandfather clock inside struck six o'clock.

"Who is it... Harry Potter?"

Harry blinked. "Er... yeah...!" he said. "Can I come in...?"

"Certainly you... can. But _may _you, that's the... question, isn't it?"

"_May _I come in, sir?"

"Certainly."

Harry opened the door, and found himself in Morgen's office for what he realised was the first time. The whole thing looked... quite plain, actually. The walls were blank, and the only distinguishing point was the grandfather clock Harry had heard a moment before, which sat on proud display opposite Morgen's desk, its pendulum swinging back and forth powerfully with each passing moment.

"Isn't our High Inquisitor such a... nice, considerate person?" said Morgen, a wry smile on his face as he leaned against his desk, a book under one arm—Harry saw that it was Morgen's own, _The Perfect Murder_. "He even asked me if... I had any plans before he dumped you on me tonight."

Harry didn't know what it was, really, but something in the way Morgen said this was very different from the way Snape, for instance, would have said it. Perhaps it was just the odd pacing of his speech, but Harry was quite sure Morgen wasn't the least disappointed that Harry had been 'dumped' on him tonight.

"So," said Morgen, and he stood abruptly and walked round the desk, beginning to rummage through a drawer, "you, Harry Potter, are going... to be doing something very important for me, this week. You will..." he lifted a cardboard box from the drawer and placed it on the desk, beside a Muggle-looking leather briefcase, "be washing the desks."

Harry walked up to him and looked in the box—there was a bunch of different sponges of different sizes, shapes, and colours in there.

"They're all... un-run-out-of-suds-able," said Morgen. "Go ahead, pick one."

Harry took a plain yellow rectangular one that looked like it would wash pretty well, and it felt wet beneath his fingers.

Morgen led him to the doorway into the classroom, and said, "You have... a half-an-hour."

"What happens after a half-hour?" Harry said.

Morgen frowned at him. "You leave, of course, and pick up tomorrow."

This didn't sound all that bad, Harry reckoned, especially with all of his experience in washing things of the Dursleys over the years, so without further comment he started to scrub, starting with the desks in the back of the room and working his way forwards.

Time seemed to go by quite quickly, and Harry reckoned—as the time neared half-six—that it was the easiest detention he'd ever served. He'd finished nearly half of the desks already, scrubbed from top to bottom, and figured that he'd have time for one more—

"Five minutes," said Morgen, who was reading _The Perfect Murder _at his desk. Harry wondered why he found it interesting to read his own book.

Harry squeezed the sponge upon the desktop, and roughly scraped it back and forth across the wooden surface. He began to hear the ticking of the grandfather clock from the next room, and figured he'd be off in maybe two, three minutes... he tried not to smile wryly as he thought that he'd be sure to get more detentions with Morgen.

And then he saw something peculiar.

At the very corner of this desk was carved a slightly imperfect heart, and within it was four letters:

RL  
CC 

It wouldn't have been all that strange if Harry'd had any idea who it meant, or if he'd ever seen it before—it stood out quite clearly, as though it had been cut quite recently, and Harry didn't know anyone at Hogwarts with the initials "RL" or "CC."

Harry scrubbed at the heart for a moment, thinking perhaps it would come off—_How'd I figure that?_ he wondered when it didn't. _Why would a carving come off with scrubbing? Dolt._

Harry decided to forget about it, and continued washing the rest of the desk, scrubbing very hard as the last seconds ticked away...

"Time's up," said Morgen, then, and he looked at Harry's position appraisingly. "Almost... half-way already, are we? You'll have it easy on Friday, then, won't you?"

Harry returned the sponge and stood rather awkwardly until Morgen said:

"You're free to go," and Harry went.

——

That night, Harry was having difficulty sleeping—_Like that's new_, he thought bitterly.

He lay staring up at the ceiling, and missed Ginny more than ever. He remembered that night in the Burrow's living room... his birthday... that had been _wonderful_, with her beside him on the couch, and the occasional whisper or movement... that constant feel of _Ginny _just beside him... he missed her so very much—

"You asked for her to be kept safe."

Harry blinked. Who had—? He had heard a voice, he was sure he had. It wasn't Dean or Seamus, he knew, and Ron and Neville were both still in the Hospital Wing...

Harry sat up in bed, and he felt something inside him tell him to go to the common room, so he did, and he nearly fell off the bottom steps in surprise—

—_it was a person bathed in blinding white light_—

"O—Onyssius?" said Harry, finally taking the last step onto the common room floor. He tried out Hermione's name for the anti-Dementor. "Is that your—?"

The figure... Harry still thought it looked more like an angel than anything else... he swore it shook its head.

"Onyssius, Harry Potter," said the anti-Dementor, "is an illusion created in the mind of a student here, not twenty years ago. No, I am not Onyssius."

"Then who are you?"

The anti-Dementor did not speak for a long time, and when it did, it said once again:

"You asked for her to be kept safe."

"Who? Ginny?" said Harry, and the anti-Dementor nodded. "When did I ask you to keep Ginny safe?"

It did not reply.

"How have you kept her safe, then?"

"We have helped to guard her from the dangers of her mind."

"_We?_" said Harry. "There's more than one of you?"

"Of course, Harry Potter."

"What are you?"

"You know what we are."

Harry shook his head, disbelieving that any creature could be this vague.

"Well let's say I don't," said Harry. "What are you?"

"You know what we are."

Harry let out a breath.

"You never said how you were keeping Ginny safe—"

"We have helped to guard her from the dangers of her mind," repeated the angel stubbornly.

"_How_, though?" said Harry. "The last I heard from her, Ginny was having nightmares all the time—doesn't seem very helpful—"

"We have helped to guard her from dangers greater than night-terrors, dangers night-terrors can protect her from as well."

Harry hesitated a moment before saying:

"WHAT on EARTH are you talking about? You're not making any sense—"

And then, to Harry's immense good-fortune, the angel decided to explain:

"The Dark Lord wishes for you and Ginevra Weasley to remain separate—"

"Oh, you've helped with that loads," said Harry.

"—and he placed a spell upon her to accomplish this, a spell that would keep her out of this school, away from you, where she could warn you of—"

"Of what?"

"—dangers. This spell was begun years ago, when the Dark Lord took Ginevra into the Chamber of Secrets, without the knowledge of either he nor she. The Dark Lord recently discovered its beginnings and built upon them, shortly after you and Ginevra returned to your own time, to torment Ginevra and to trap her within her mind when possible."

Harry did not have any words left, serious or sarcastic, and was now just listening—he remembered that day in the Riddle House as though it were yesterday, and he remembered when Voldemort had had Ginny by the throat... he must have done this then...

"Shortly thereafter a third stage of the spell was set forth, trapping Ginevra away from this school, away from you, Harry Potter, and keeping the two of you apart even when you were only footsteps away from each other."

Harry remembered his inability to leave his room at the Burrow... His heart was beating fast now, and there was this sense of utter revelation...

"_We_, Harry Potter," said the angel then, "have guarded Ginevra from these dangers of her mind, we have replayed a night-terror of hers each time the Dark Lord has attempted to steal her away inside herself, and she is still alive, Harry Potter—"

"She would have died?"

The angel was silent.

"You asked for her to be kept safe," it said once again after a while. "We have kept her safe."

And then it faded, just as it had on the train, slowly and slowly disappearing into nothingness. He watched it until it was nothing at all, and then thought quite confidently that he would be able to fall asleep now.

—— 

Next morning Harry woke up with a strange feeling inside him... it was similar to that of the day before, only very much different. He... he was bursting to tell the news that the angel had brought, and yet he knew that he couldn't, not yet. The only person he could tell was Ginny, she had to know first, and if he couldn't reach Ginny, then he would have to keep it inside him for as long as it took. Somehow he knew that there was no rush; everything would be all right if he waited, if he took his time.

He was feeling very much more himself today than he had felt since school had begun... he was completely aware of everything he was doing, he... he didn't forget anything at all, and when he met them at breakfast, he talked to both Ron and Hermione normally—Ron, it seemed, had been released from the Hospital Wing early this morning.

"You look different this morning, Harry," said Hermione across the breakfast table. "We never saw you after your detention—"

"Yeah, how was Morgen?" said Ron.

"Really easy, actually," said Harry, "he just made me wash the desks, and I'm pretty sure the sponge was charmed or something... oh, do either of you know anyone with the initials 'CC' by the way?"

"Don't think so," said Ron.

"I don't believe so..." said Hermione, and right then, Luna sat down next to Ron, and it struck Harry that the two of them had been around each other a lot lately, what with the whole Hospital Wing incident and all...

"Hello, Ronald," she said, "hello, Harry, Hermione."

She helped herself to a bit of sausage from Ron's plate and Harry blinked in confusion when he didn't react.

"You all seem... friendlier, today," Harry said.

"They made up," said Luna, indicating Ron and Hermione, and there was this strange smirk on her face, "it was really quite amusing—"

"Let's not go into details," said Ron then, and he changed the subject: "So Harry, Hermione told us about Neville and you... reckon it was a good idea not to mention it with him right there. Did you... er... have you felt anything today?"

"I'm feeling fine, actually," said Harry.

Hermione's eyes widened and she said: "Maybe now that you know about it Voldemort's not going to dare it—"

Harry felt somehow that everything today was... sunshiney. That was the word for it. Everything was bright and cheerful and so much more relaxed... the only thing that was missing was for Ginny to come down through the double doors and sit next to Harry and complain about the homework she'd been set...

Harry's whole day passed very quickly, surprisingly so—and as opposed to some of the previous days that had gone by quickly, Harry actually _remembered _the whole day, which was certainly heartening. In Charms, he successfully managed the _Aguamenti _charm on his second try, while yesterday he'd been too busy thinking to even attempt it.

In short, Harry felt good for the first time in ages.

Before he knew it, it was time for Morgen's second detention, and Harry reckoned that he'd have no trouble finishing off the desks today.

He arrived at five minutes to six, and Morgen had the box of sponges ready on the desk in the classroom today—his briefcase had been moved as well, actually, and was now in the classroom too.

"I'm going to be... in the office," said Morgen. "Just next door—I've got to do... a bit of cleaning myself."

"That's fine," said Harry, and got to work.

It was really just as easy as he thought it would be—in fact, he was on the second-to-last desk, the one Neville usually sat at, when Morgen poked his head in the room, about twenty past six.

"I've got to... run out for a minute. I'm supposed to be in a meeting with the Headmistress... you'll be able to finish up on your own, won't you?"

"Sure," said Harry. Everything was so easy today, he mused, and he was so light-hearted... it was almost as though someone had cast a Cheering Charm on him.

And then, just as Harry heard the office door shut, a strange feeling came over him.

I'm alone in Morgen's classroom... he's not going to be back... I wonder what secrets he's keeping?

Harry tried to push the thought out of his head, and continue on the desk, but he then found his gaze drawn to the briefcase on the desk, and a raging fire leapt up within Harry to learn of its contents.

_Why, though?_ he asked himself. _Why bother sneaking round when there's no reason?_

Because, he felt a voice answer—because the Defence teacher _always _has something to hide.

Harry let that thought sink in a moment before shaking his head. _That's a stupid reason._

He moved onto the final desk.

But what about all the strange things Morgen had done in class? The... the lectures on killing? Surely there was something more to him than... a homicide-obsessed, older, male version of Luna Lovegood?

Harry smirked at the thought, chewed his tongue a moment, and continued scrubbing.

_It can't hurt to find out, can it?_ said that voice, and Harry tried not to listen, to block it out, but...

When Harry had finished the final desk, he went over to Morgen's own desk to put the sponge back in the box, and he tried—tried with all his might—to walk away, to simply leave, but he couldn't manage it, and he found his fingers clasping the briefcase in his hands.

Harry looked back to the door. How long until Morgen would be back, he wondered? The suitcase on the desk seemed to scream at him, _Open me! Open me! I bear the answers to all you long to know... open me!_

_Damn it all,_ said Harry, and with a final backward glance, he swung the case round on the desk so that the Muggle clips holding it shut were facing him, and popped them—it opened, easily, without so much as an intruder hex to make his ears turn purple. Harry looked in—

Nothing, nothing at all. Of _course_ there was nothing—Harry had been overreacting, what had he been expecting? He made to close the case, but then a thought flickered through his mind that made all too much sense for his liking:

Why does Morgen keep an empty briefcase on his desk?

And then Harry looked again and it was plain to see—how could he have missed it?—that there was a false bottom to this briefcase, and when Harry pulled it up, he saw quite plainly what he had expected to see, and yet not expected at _all._

There was a single red file folder there, contrasting completely with the otherwise black case. It seemed to be a normal folder, just a bit of thick paper bent in two, but as Harry reached for it, his hand trembled, as though there would be another revelation—like the one last night, the angel's—upon unfolding that red bit of...

He did it, he opened it, and he saw:

There were pictures, loads of them, Muggle photographs that looked so very Muggle it was strange—they seemed like they _should be moving, _but they WEREN'T, and there was this sort of... captured moment in each of them unlike in any photographs Harry had ever seen before.

Upon each of them was written a name, hastily, in a sort of scribbly print. The one that caught his eyes first:

H. POTTER 

Harry snatched it into his hands and held it in the light, so that he could see it better—this was indeed himself, taken in the common room—he didn't know when. It was strange, to see himself somewhere he had most definitely not expected to see himself. Wizarding magazine? Oh, that was normal. Front page of the _Prophet?_ As plain as trees. In Professor Morgen's briefcase? Not quite.

He looked back down at the folder, and saw now that there were others, other pictures—he had seen before, but he hadn't really _seen, _he hadn't noticed who they were.

R. WEASLEY

H. J. GRANGER

L. M. LOVEGOOD 

The last of which was almost folded in the fold of the folder—Harry blinked—underneath a picture of a blonde woman with no label, and for a split second Harry wondered what Luna's middle name was. And why did Hermione's and Luna's pictures include their middle initials, while Ron's and Harry's own did not?

And then all thoughts of names and initials were completely lost as Harry's eyes fell on the most intriguing picture in the whole twisted sort of album. It was at the very back of the file, under loads of other people that Harry didn't recognise, and it took a minute for what he was seeing to enter Harry's mind, to fully equate itself into a thought.

The picture's occupant had shoulder-length black hair, a sour sort of expression on his face, and was seated at a desk. Behind him were shelves upon shelves of strange ingredients and potions and other sorts of disgusting things... and although Harry had not seen this man since the end of last term, he certainly knew who he was.

Or rather, he _thought _he did. A single word was writ upon that photograph, sharply underlined, and Harry had to blink to understand it, even though its meaning was perfectly clear:

SNAPE? 

End of Part Two.

This is the end of the second contest, the one where you were supposed to guess how the fic ends. I won't say who won of course—that will be posted at the end of the story.

In regards to the other contests, keep submitting, but I'm not going to be keeping a tally... I'll just count everything up at the end of the fic, as I'm a bit too busy to put details in the author's notes.

I received an interesting review last chapter... let me see: "Yeesh, boyo, what made you think of that? It seems a bit familiar, if i do say so myself." This was by Slightly Qeasy, and it was written two days after book six was released. I'd like to remind everyone that the chapter Mr Qeasy is referring to was posted two days _before_ book six was released, so anything that seems familiar I most certainly did not copy.

That's it, for now... I do hope the next chapter doesn't take nearly this long, (I'm hoping that the HBP-inspired writer's block is gone for good), and... well... please review. There's an awful lot to comment on in this chapter, isn't there?

**_ Part Three  
Coming Soon _**

Intrigued by Yesterday? Check out the Yesterday Sequence Yahoo! Group at: groups . yahoo . com / group / HPYesterday

Please review.


	16. The Notebook

Author's Note: Hey... been awhile, hasn't it? Well. I've scarcely written a word in this story in months, and even when I have, they haven't been very good words. I'm starting this chapter fresh, new, from the top—and I apologise greatly, but all contests are off. It's been hard enough to simply write this thing, I can't keep track of contest entries. Anyone who wants that promised wallpaper, just let me know in a review of the EPILOGUE, so that they're all right nice together... or just do it now, but I won't get it to you for awhile, since I might have to actually make it again, since my computer broke down in October.

Hey... I don't usually put the author's notes at the beginning, do I? Well... things are changing round here anyway, so... yeah. I have a lot of work cut out for me in tying up this story, and writing the next one as well—I have absolutely no idea how many years that'll take, but I sincerely do not want to give up on this. There have been times of doubt, when I just haven't seen the point, but I _need _to finish this. I've contemplated just finishing it off on this fic, but that feels like cheating, somehow. If you all will be here for the long haul, then so will I.

Oh, and by the way: next chapter should be up _very _soon, at MOST the "normal" five days, because this and the next chapter were originally going to be only one chapter, but it got too long so I had to split it. You'll be thankful I did, it would have been much too much to read at once... and now you have a near-future update to look forward to (because I've only got like a scene to go in that chapter. Woo!)

Please review.

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_Potter47_

_**Part Three  
October**_

"Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,  
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid."  
— Alexander Pope

"If they give you lined paper, write the other way."  
— William Carlos Williams

_**Chapter Fifteen  
The Notebook**_

_Ginny felt the cold whip about her face—and along with that nasty little twig, a thought struck her. It most likely should not have been this cold, this early—it was only Halloween morning, now, after all, why was it so very frigid? _

_She shivered and held tighter to the broom, huddling herself closer to the wooden handle and keeping herself as small as she could, so as to gain speed._

_Was she really doing this? Had she really, honestly, truly broken out of that damned prison of her mind? Was she really going to see Harry again... today? Oh, Lord, how long had it been? Only two months, really, but it felt so very much longer... she wanted to hug him, more than anything else, she wanted to hug him and be hugged _by _him, she could almost—but not quite—remember what that felt like..._

_Ginny suddenly felt an indescribable pain, sharp, stabbing... all over her body, _OH... oh... ow...

_And then she felt a distinct pain in her shoulder, even though the stabbing pains were still encompassing the rest of her, this was new, this was different... and she realised she'd fallen off the broom, and hit the ground, and then the world was black._

——

Ginny stared determinedly at her ceiling as the clock struck midnight on the first of October. She'd taken up biting her lips at some point in the past month... she couldn't remember when, but she knew now—even now as she gnawed at that last little scrap of skin that was still attached, that she would regret this later and her mouth would sting terribly when her mum forced the orange juice into it in the morning.

There, the scrap was gone... and she was just about to start on another when her ceiling was suddenly illuminated, just for a moment, by a flash outside the window. She sprung up to a sitting position far too quickly and swayed dizzily for a moment before she could stand the rest of the way—when she finally did manage it, she went to the window to see what had caused the flash—

She squinted out into the darkness, and was vaguely surprised to see nothing out of the ordinary. She grabbed her wand on the bedside table—thankful once again that she was _supposed _to be doing magic, in school, so it wasn't being monitored—and muttered "_Lumos!_"

She directed the light upon the overgrown grass and leaned as far out the window as she dared, while making sure never to let a foot off the ground...

"Damn it," she muttered. "Nothing..."

Aggravated, and thinking perhaps she'd been foolish and that she'd been hoping against hope for something exciting to happen for so very long, that maybe she'd _imagined _the flash entirely... or at least blew it out of proportion, maybe it was a car's headlights down in the village...

She slammed the wand back on the bedside table a bit too hard, but just as she did, the walls lit up white again with another flash—

She was back at the window before she even realised what had happened, before she consciously could tell herself to go there—and she saw the origin of the flash:

The broom shed.

For a moment she was disappointed... it was probably just her father messing about with some Muggle appliance, after all... but then there was _another _flash, brighter than before, and she heard hushed voices in the silence, drifting up and into her open window from the kitchen three levels below:

"You _mustn't_, Arthur... we have to call someone, what if it's _them?_"

That was her mum's voice, worried, desperately worried... Ginny's eyes flew back and forth in a panicked, useless glance, and she threw her head out the window as far as it could go, to listen closer:

"Yes, Molly, what if it is? We can't simply wait here for help if the Death Eaters have broken down our wards, can we? We have to do something—"

"Dumbledore, Arthur, _Dumbledore!_ He told us to call him, don't be stupid—this is _just _what he was talking about—send out the message, Arthur, he told us to, don't you remember?"

"But what if they see it?"

"Send it out the other way, idiot!"

"Oh... yes, of course..."

"My goodness, who left the window open...?"

That was the last of the voices... Ginny started biting her lip again, and stared out at the broom shed in a mix of apprehension and fear...

What was going on?

——

Ginny heard nothing of the night's events next morning at breakfast—she would have been convinced it had all been a dream if not for the tension-filled glances her parents were giving each other all through the meal... well, that and the fact that her dreams had been rather monotonous recently...

Part of her wanted to bring the subject up herself, but the rest of her said not to. Harry's aunt had started coming out to meals the previous week, and Ginny didn't think it prudent to mention anything out of the ordinary in _her_ presence, even if it was urgent.

"Your bacon is very tolerable," said Petunia suddenly, as though she'd been trying to make herself say it for days—but then she looked upset with herself. Ginny reckoned she hadn't meant to say 'tolerable' at all, and that she had instead intended an _actual_ compliment, but hadn't managed it.

"I'm happy to hear that," said Molly, and she _almost _sounded it, if not for the disinterested look on her face.

Ginny finished her eggs then, and walked as surreptitiously as she could to the door to the garden—

"Where are you going?" said Molly sharply.

"To sit in the garden," said Ginny, as though nothing were amiss...

"_Bed_, Ginny, you are supposed to stay in _bed_..."

"Mum, I'm _fine,_ it's been _forever _since I've been out of the house..."

"I seem to remember you sneaking out your window a bit less than _forever_ ago, young lady—"

"That was only one time!"

"So?" (It had actually been a few times...)

"I want to sit in the garden!"

"It's not safe—"

"Why not?"

"Because of—" Molly hesitated. "Because you're supposed to be in _bed._"

"Molly?" said a very small voice—Arthur's, actually. "Perhaps it wouldn't do any harm to let her out for just a little while..."

Molly hesitated again, and she said, harshly to her husband: "Are you sure?"

He nodded, and it was as though there was some secretive communicating going on between their heads, Ginny reckoned...

"Fine," said Molly. "A half-hour, you can sit out there for one half-hour and then it's back to bed. And I'll be watching."

Ginny smiled. "_Thank_ you."

She turned towards the door, and as she left, she noticed an absolutely bewildered look on Petunia's face.

Ginny grinned as the cool October air hit her face.

——

Days went by, then, and the first week of October disappeared into the second—each morning Ginny was allowed to sit a half hour in the garden, and each morning she spent that half-hour staring at the broom shed and trying to work out in her mind what on earth had happened there that night. Surely it couldn't _truly _have been Death Eaters, or else she would have heard _something_... she would have noticed the Order coming to get rid of them, and the whole family would likely have been packed up to a safe house, or put under a Fidelius Charm, at the very least...

Ginny blinked.

How would _she_ know if they _had _been put under a Fidelius Charm? She had not left the property, had she, so how did she know for sure that it was still visible to outsiders? Perhaps the Death Eaters _had _found them, and now Dumbledore had put a charm up...

She stared harder still at the broom shed, as though convinced that she could force it to divulge its secrets...

"Bed," said a voice simply, then, a tired voice that Ginny knew was her mum's. Molly had been showing increasing signs of fatigue with each passing day, and Ginny reckoned that she had reached her wit's end with Petunia's hardly-hidden displeasure with her house and the ungratefulness to her hospitality... Petunia seemed to think she was some sort of queen locked away in a servant's house for her protection while her castle had been overtaken by the enemy. Ginny figured that wasn't really too far from the truth, except for the "queen," "servant," and "castle" parts...

Ginny reached her room in a rather melancholy mood—she was dreadfully bored, as always, but for once she didn't want to do anything about it, she felt no urge to attempt an escape, or to think about the broom shed, or... anything, really... In fact, the only thing she really wanted to do was to see Harry, because she always wanted to see Harry regardless of what mood she was in.

Ginny sat in the old wooden chair by her desk—which likely would have snapped in two had she weighed more than a large sack of potatoes, and had it not been magically reinforced—so that she wouldn't have to return to her bed. She rested her cheek on her hand and stared at the desktop, stared at nothing at all...

When had she last sat here...? It took her a moment to recall—it had been the day after Harry and the others had departed for school, she had sat down and written him a letter... she couldn't quite remember what she'd written, but it didn't matter because she hadn't been able to send it. They still weren't letting letters into the school unsolicited—her dad had told her that, when she'd asked to borrow Errol... and there was no point trying to send a love letter past Percy...

Her eyes fell on her ink bottle as she thought of Percy. It was almost funny, to think of him as High Inquisitor and all... it suited him so well, didn't it? But then, she couldn't imagine what he must be like in the position... had he sacked anyone, she wondered? She wasn't disappointed that she didn't have to deal with him herself, but...

Thinking of all that made her think of all she couldn't do, all that she was missing, staying here away from Hogwarts... and thinking of _that,_ she thought of Harry, because she was missing him most of all...

Ginny's eyes refused to leave the ink bottle, for some reason... whether voluntarily or not, she did not know... Did she really find it that interesting, the shiny scarlet through glass? It looked a bit like blood, actually, now that she thought about it, and she didn't want to think about it, so she wrenched her gaze away.

It fell upon a Muggle notebook stashed inside a small, open, cupboard-esque compartment at the edge of her desk. It was blue, and proclaimed '70 LEAVES' in large letters on its cover, almost as though it were bragging. It wasn't brand new, it was actually very old... she couldn't remember how she came to possess it, actually, but it had always sat there in that cupboard, never written in, scarcely ever touched...

She touched it now, pulled it out and began paging through its blank 'leaves'... She found nothing, of course, or else nothing but white, lined sheets... Did Muggles really need little lines to keep their writing straight? Were they just for show...? What good did they serve, really?

Ginny flipped back to the first page and turned the notebook defiantly horizontal, to spite the lines—she folded the cover back on the little spirally thing, and reached for her ink bottle—

_No_, she said to herself, looking at the blood red liquid—_no, I'm not going to use that..._

She bit her lip a moment in thought and then reached into the cupboard that had held the notebook—at the very back she knew she'd find a stack of Muggle pens... when her father gave her one, she'd throw it in here, having nowhere else for it... and now they would have a use.

Spreading the pens across the desk, she picked a nice blue one, and pulled the cap off of it—it stuck a moment before coming free—and then stuck the cap on the other end of it, so she wouldn't lose it.

She put the pen to the paper and began to write across the lines, just to write, and write, and she wasn't really even aware of what she was writing until she'd covered half the page with her vaguely loopy, unpractised script...

Then she stopped, and read what she'd written—it almost came as a surprise to realise that the blue pen actually contained black ink, but yes, the words were all in black.

_Dear Harry, _she had written,

_I love you. When was the last time I told you that, when was the last time I told you anything? When was the last time I hugged you, Harry, when was the last time I _saw _you?_

_What am I, now, some damned princess locked away from her love? I don't WANT to be a princess, damn it, I never wanted to be a princess, what's so great about princesses, anyway? They never _do _anything,_ _do they? Luna has the right idea, she's always been a Queen. You didn't know about that, of course, but she did..._

_No, I'm not a princess, I'm... I'm Dorothy, stuck in... Kansas, is that how you spell it...? while everybody else is in Oz... Should I write a song, will that help? Then I can sing it and then a tornado will come and take me over the rainbow, and I'll be back with you on that tower just where we were when you first kissed me, when I first kissed you, when the rain stopped and there was my rainbow and everything was perfect and WHY DID WE EVER LEAVE?_

Ginny blinked as she finished reading her words—had she really written all that? It was so different from anything else she'd ever written...

Without even meaning to, she thought back to Tom, and she knew that she never would have dared to write anything like that to _him..._ she was always nothing more than a pitiful little girl to _him_, she never had a real voice...

Ginny grinned as she realised that she had a voice now... and also that she was no longer melancholy by any stretch of the imagination, she was _exhilarated..._

Ginny closed her eyes a moment, and put the pen back to the paper... and she wrote.

——

Ginny took her notebook everywhere with her now—and with it at least two pens, should one ever run out of ink. When the blue-pen-with-black-ink had run out, she'd nearly panicked... she didn't know pens did that... and she'd thought when the words stopped showing up that she'd lost the magic writing touch she seemed to have acquired...

She wrote about everything, anything at all... she wrote about the Mystery of the Broom Shed (as she'd dubbed it), and about things she remembered, good things... and sometimes bad things as well. She wrote about her feelings, her thoughts, poured them all into that blue notebook, feeling utterly perfect knowing that only one person would ever read them:

Harry.

The book had become a diary of sorts, a diary of letters, all to Harry... she'd started marking down the dates so as to make it more diary-like, and she often found herself adding P.S.s to make it more letter-like. She would give it to him the next time she saw him... the Christmas holidays, likely... and then he'd write back whether he wanted to or not, she'd see to that.

She grinned at the thought of Harry scribbling madly away, perhaps with a bit of hair falling in his eyes, leaning over one of the tables in the Gryffindor common room... and she realised how much she'd been grinning lately.

Ginny sat now in the garden, watching the broom shed as her hand jotted away of its own accord...

She glanced down at what she'd written:

_...perhaps it's a conspiracy. Yes, the Ministry is breeding Snorkacks in my broom shed, that's it, why didn't I think of it before? And the lights, Luna mentioned something about it once, I think that Snorkacks glow when they're cuddled by virgins, it's like unicorns except more Snorkacky, because unicorns don't glow. Oh! That means Fudge must be breeding them himself!_

Ginny snorted... that was awful, just terrible... and yet she loved it because she'd actually managed to write it down.

"Bed."

"Coming," said Ginny cheerfully, and she jumped up off the garden bench, covering her pen.

Molly looked almost worriedly at her. "What's happened, Ginny? Just a few days ago you did nothing but mope about begging to be set free of this _terrible prison..._ and now you're so... _happy_."

Ginny grinned once again. "And is there a problem with that, Mum? Would you _rather _I continued moping about?"

"Of course not... but..." Molly bit her lip and looked her daughter up and down as though inspecting her— "Ginny, I have to ask, as your mother... you haven't been stinging yourself with Billywigs, have you?"

Ginny blinked—"Of course not, Mum, I'd never do that—"

"You're sure?"

"_Yes_, Mum, I'm quite sure—I'm not an idiot..."

"Good," said Molly, nodding and looking relieved. "I told you father not to worry..."

_She did no such thing_, thought Ginny. _There's no way that was Dad's theory..._

"Are you all right, Mum?" said Ginny, then, noticing once more how fatigued her mother was looking. It was getting a bit ridiculous... you would think that eventually it would become impossible to look twice as worse as you had the day before...

"Oh, yes, I'm fine, dear..."

"Are you sure?"

"_Yes_, Ginny, I'm quite sure—I'm perfectly all right..."

They were both silent for a moment, and then:

"You know that I don't believe you a bit?" said Ginny, a small smile on her face now.

"Yes...yes I do..."

Then Ginny smirked.

"I think you should go to _bed_, Mum."

"Oh, no, there's far too much to be done..."

"Like what?"

Molly hesitated a moment, and then: "The dishes, the living room has to be cleaned, the floors are dreadfully dusty, I have to find a charm for that squeaky door..."

Molly had begun to walk away from Ginny as she spoke, heading for the kitchen sink for the dishes—Ginny caught up with her, and took hold of her arm.

"Mum, you sound like a Mrs Skower's advert—has Harry's aunt been complaining again? You shouldn't listen to her—"

"No, oh no, Ginny, Petunia hasn't complained in weeks, hardly..." She lowered her voice, then: "But I can _tell _she doesn't like it one bit, and since she _hasn't _even _complained_ I think that it's only fair for me to... try to make her stay _happier_..."

"Mum, you're driving yourself mad," said Ginny, locking her arm round her mother's now, and walking her out of the kitchen. "Rest. I'll do the dishes, and you don't have to worry about the other things... it's not that important, really. You need some sleep."

Molly shot her a sharp look as she was led to the stairwell, "How old are you, Ginny? What have you done with my little girl?"

"Don't worry, she's still in there somewhere..." Ginny said—a thought popped into her head of her selves, and she sort of lost track of things for a moment. Then, shaking her head a bit and surfacing: "_Bed_."

Molly hesitated, and then finally lifted her foot to the first step and said, very softly, "_Thank you..._"

"Any time," said Ginny, and she smiled once again as her mum climbed the stairs. She added: "..._dear_."

——

_15 October _

_Dear Harry,_

_Do you remember my first letter? I said, (and I quote, having the benefits of flipping back to the first page...) "When was the last time I hugged you, Harry, when was the last time I _saw _you!"_

_And I said that as though I don't remember, but I do, I remember it like it was ages ago. I was going to say "yesterday" but it doesn't feel like yesterday at all. _

_When you left with Ron and Hermione... I remember it vividly. I hadn't seen you in days, you had... Mum hadn't been letting you near my room, I don't think, I wanted to kill her for that... and then on that day I was allowed to come down to say goodbye, remember? And you looked awful, like you'd been sick... you'd still not gotten used to Sirius being not alive... have you by now, I wonder? I hope so, I hope you've been... happier..._

_I saw you that day and I didn't want to let you go, because you looked so awful, and I felt awful seeing you like that, and I just wanted to hug you forever, even more than I usually do, because you know, when two people love each other they're supposed to be together, aren't they? They're supposed to be like one person, right, and when one of them's not doing good the other's supposed to make them feel better, and I wanted to make you feel better so badly that I nearly burst into tears right in front of you, you know that?_

_But I couldn't hug you forever, because you were leaving. And when I did hug you, to say goodbye, it was so... not right. It was so short and so... almost cold, like you didn't want to hug me, and for a minute I was upset, I couldn't understand why... but then I pulled back and I saw this look in your eyes, it was like... it was like your soul was _aching _through the green... that doesn't make sense, but I could feel that you really wanted nothing but to hold me forever as well, but something was stopping you._

_What was stopping you?_

_Was it Sirius? If it was, then... hugging helps that sort of thing, believe me. I mean, I've never _actually _lost someone like that, but I've felt like I have, I've lost myself... and hugging really helps, I promise. You better be better by the next time I see you, Harry—you'd better hug me like there's no tomorrow, or there's going to be hell to pay. _

_Oh, I love you... and I miss you something awful. _

_Love,_

_Ginevra M. Weasley_

_P.S.: Oh look at me, I'm so businesslike... I should intern at the Ministry, it'd give me something to do... _

_P.P.S.: There should be some way to show that I'm joking in a letter. I mean, if I said that out loud, I would have laughed afterward, or smiled like I just did... but you can't see that... You know I wasn't serious, right? Well, that was sort of obvious, but before that, about there being hell to pay... you could tell I was joking, yes? Well, I was. Just wanted to make sure... (smile). I'll do that from now on when I smile when I'm writing these, OK?_

——

Ginny smiled once again as she set down her pen... she'd best actually do those dishes.

She hesitated then, as she reached the sink, she remembered that her wand was back on her bedside table...

She glanced up towards the stairwell, contemplating... should she go to get it? Her mum might not be asleep, though, and she didn't want her seeing Ginny doing magic... and anyway, she'd probably wake up from the creaking steps, if only to see if Ginny needed help... _Better to let her rest..._

So Ginny picked up the sponge herself, in her own hand, rather than by magic as her mum did it... She used to do this a lot more often, years ago... They used to rotate, so she did it once a week until Bill left, and then twice because she somehow landed the extra day. When Charlie left, Ron had had two days as well...

Ginny kept remembering, as she scrubbed. She was so used to trying to forget things, actually, that the remembering took her a bit by surprise... it was nice, really...

There were so many less plates now then there had been back then.

At some point her mum had taken over most of the days. Ginny couldn't remember when that had been, and it didn't really make sense... As they had gotten older, shouldn't they have taken _more_ of the responsibilities, rather than less of them?

Ginny stopped her scrubbing a minute as she realised she couldn't remember how old her mum was.

She was in her forties, right... late forties...? Must be...

Ginny couldn't believe she couldn't remember...

Her birthday was soon, Ginny knew that, it was the thirtieth... 30 October.. _what? What year?_

Ginny felt ashamed to think about that... how on _earth_ had she _forgotten...? _It had been so long since she'd been around on her mum's birthday, she must have completely just... stopped remembering it...

She'd have to ask her dad.

Her dad... Dad... where was her dad? He'd gone to work, yes, of course... it was only Ginny and Molly and Petunia...

Where was Petunia?

_In her room_, Ginny answered herself, wondering why she'd wondered, and then noting that she'd started thinking of it as Petunia's room, rather than the twins', who'd been living above their shop...

Ginny blinked as she picked up the second-to-last dish and began scrubbing it...

_I'm alone, aren't I? I could walk out the door and Mum wouldn't know..._

She began to scrub faster and faster, a bit rougher...

_I could leave, I could fly away and see Harry again, I could hold him..._ she looked up at the Muggle clock on the wall and figured he'd be in the Great Hall for lunch about now... How wonderful it would be to charge through the double doors and envelope him...

"Ow!"

Her finger had slipped off the sponge in the rough scrubbing, and she had scraped it on the plate, which sent tingles down her spine—the plate had clattered to the bottom of the sink, luckily remaining intact.

Ginny wasn't thinking quite clearly, now, as she picked up the dish and scrubbed it once again... Her eyes were clouded with thoughts of freedom, thoughts of Harry, and then they cleared a minute later as she placed the plate to the side—she had one dish left.

She began scrubbing harder than she'd ever scrubbed before, as though her very life depended on it. Perhaps it did. She felt as though it did...

_Harry..._

"Done!" she whisper-yelled finally, and she spun around in a moment, planning on charging straight out the door...

...when her eyes fell upon the worried face of her mother, sleepy-eyed.

"I heard a noise, did you break something?"

_DAMN IT!_

"No, Mum, I... I just dropped a plate. It didn't break." Ginny felt her voice was a bit wobbly, and she could hardly help the words from coming out in a scream. _DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT!_

"Are you all right? Did it chip?"

"No, Mum, everything's fine," said Ginny somewhat roughly... then she took a breath and said: "I'm fine, Mum, I just lost my grip a minute. Go back to bed."

_Please please please please..._

Molly surveyed her daughter a minute, and then said: "I think I'll have some tea instead."

_Damn it..._ Ginny felt as though it was paradise that had slipped through her fingers, rather than a coldish October day.

Then her Mum spoke once again: "Would you like some?"

"No thanks... hang on, I'll make yours, you need to _rest _Mum, why are you standing up?"

Molly blinked as though still half-asleep. "I heard a noise..."

"Go sit on the couch, I'll make you some tea, just _rest_, Mum..."

Ginny settled herself to her captivity once again, and began to prepare a pot of tea.

——

_16 October,_

_Dear Harry,_

_You remember my rainbow, right? From the day when we... well... when all this came about. I mentioned it before, and today I was thinking of it, I wish I could see it again now..._

_I don't like the rain. Luna's always loved it, so we used to play in it all the time when we were younger, but I haven't liked it, ever... it makes me feel sick. Not like it's sickening, but it reminds me of being sick. I have these vague memories of when I was really little, when I was really sick in bed with something and it was raining the whole time... It probably isn't even really real, it was probably just like a day or something, but it felt like ages when I couldn't see anything out the window except the drops and... yeah._

_I've thought of the rain a lot since being locked up here... all the lying in bed and everything. And I've been thinking of my rainbow, my refuge-from-the-rain._

_I'll explain it a little more. Whenever it rained in school, you know how the pitter-patter's either really loud or really soft depending on where you are? Well, first off I always went to where I couldn't hear the rain much at all, and then I'd wait out the storm... and then I'd go—I'd _run_, sometimes—to the Astronomy Tower, to see my rainbow. It was an escape._

_I miss it... even though it hasn't really rained much, I miss the feeling of escape. _

_I felt it yesterday, that feeling... or I nearly did, anyway. I was so incredibly close to just charging off to see you... remember that lady in the pub? She talked about exit doors, didn't she... that just popped into my head, I hadn't thought of that in ages..._

_Well, Mum caught me without even realising she'd caught me, and I was mad at her for hours even though she didn't do anything, really. _

_I REALLY want to see you, Harry, it's driving me insane... _

_I dunno when I'll get another chance like that, but it had better be soon. I should start carrying my broom around with me, so I could just take off out the door if Mum looked away for a minute..._

_I love you terribly. I miss you so much. Or the other way around I guess..._

_Off to see the wizard, (I wish),_

_Ginevra M. Weasley_

——

Ginny was looking over her words, from days ago, all of them straight through, reading the notebook as she tended to do, biting her lip as she tended to do... She was bored (as she tended to be) and she didn't have any inspiration to write.

So she read... and the one thing she noticed very, very much was how... futile her descriptions were. She wanted to see Harry so... _incredibly _much... it didn't come across fully on the page, in those words she'd written, she couldn't _actually _describe how much she missed him...

She looked over them again now:

_...I REALLY want to see you... _

_Oh, how eloquent._

_...driving me insane... should start carrying my broom around with me... take off out the door..._

Ginny blinked. _My broom..._ She looked over her shoulder at nothing in particular for a moment, expecting to see something but not knowing what she was expecting to see. Then, a moment later, she knew—she looked over the other shoulder, looked towards the window.

_My broom..._

She stood up and walked towards it, towards the window, and something heavy seemed to drop inside her chest as her eyes crossed the overgrown grass and settled on the broom shed.

_My broom._

"Ouch," she muttered, tearing a bit of skin free of her lip, a bit more than she'd expected... it hurt... _Oh damn it_.

She was bleeding a bit, now, and she wasn't looking at the broom shed anymore, without even realising that she'd looked away. She sat down at her desk again and put the back of her hand to her mouth to stem the barely-there flow of blood. And she began to write now, she had something to write about, and bit of a fervour for it at the moment...

——

_23 October,_

_Dear Harry,_

_I just realised that my broom is in the broom shed. And I just looked at that sentence and it looks so very silly, as though I'm stating the obvious, but I'm sure you understand. My broom is in the broom shed... meaning I can't very well get to you, even if I get a chance, unless I figure out the damned Mystery. _

_Damn. I haven't thought much of it in a while..._

_OK. I'm going to think all this through from the beginning again, write it all down here on one page, so I can look at it. _

_Round midnight of the first of the month, I see a flash. A minute or two later, another flash. They're coming from the broom shed. It's not Dad, he's not messing about with some hair drier, Dad's downstairs with Mum, they're arguing... something about sending a warning to Dumbledore. He eventually sends it... "the other way," I think... dunno what kind of warning it would be, couldn't have been Errol he was there the next morning and he'd never make it to Hogwarts and back in a few hours... probably never make it to Hogwarts and back period, if he got intercepted he'd probably have a heart attack and croak right in Percy's stuffy High Inquisitor hands..._

_Anyway... they were worried, they thought it was Death Eaters. _

_The next day Dad seems to think everything's fine. What could have happened? Was it _not _the Death Eaters, was it just a false alarm? How could that be a false alarm, though, broom sheds don't just light up for no reason..._

_Maybe there _were _Death Eaters there but the Order came and got rid of them. But surely I would have noticed something... right?_

_I have no idea..._

_And you know, a minute ago I was all determined to figure it all out, here and now, but all I did was confuse myself just like I've confused myself all the other times... If you're reading this all in one sitting, you must be really tired of this. I'm sorry._

_Hey... have I mentioned that I love you? (smile)_

_You know what? The next time I see you I'm going to lunge myself into your arms and hold you tighter than you've ever been held before—and then I'm going to kiss you on the cheek, a big wet peck, like some old aunt or something, the kind of thing that'll make you blush. I want to see you blush, Harry, I want to see you smile awkwardly and look the other way. _

_I want to see you._

_Yours forevermore, _

_Ginevra M. Weasley_

_P.S.: My mum's turning forty-seven next week. Did I tell you I'd forgotten her age? I must have... I felt awful about it, to forget my own mum's age and all... luckily I didn't even have to ask Dad about it or anything, it just came up in conversation (dunno how that happened) so it wasn't all that shameful._

_P.P.S.: I just almost wrote an extra "P" in this P.S... and then I forgot what I was going to say. _

_**Next Chapter**_

"I don't have a quote yet. Sorry."  
— Potter47

_**Coming Soon**_

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	17. The Broom Shed

Author's Note: I apologise for the delay between last chapter and this... although I daresay it was more tolerable than the delay between that chapter and the one before it. What I need to do is _stop_ making promises for when the next chapter will be up, for I invariably break them, and that is not a nice thing to do.

This delay was absolutely essential. It gave me time to think things out better than I would have done if I'd pressured myself to finish this within five days—it allowed me to slow down, and look at what I'd written and compare it with what I'd originally intended, and fix things. I thank God I didn't do what I'd been originally trying to do, and include this chapter (and the _next one_, actually) in chapter 15. It sounds insane, especially as you read them now, but I had been planning on doing that. I feel the story has a lot more integrity if it isn't rushed like that, and it also takes a whole lot off the reader... you would have had a whole lot to take in in one sitting if I'd had my way.

I think the important thing from now on with this story is that I keep it true to what it was supposed to be in the first place, before I got writer's block and more writer's block and more and more... I need to keep the _point _in the forefront of my writing, and need to make sure I get there—and take you guys along with me. I've had a problem with that on this fic, I've went waaaay too far out there and lost track of what the readers could keep track of. I'm sorry for that. I think I've re-centred things a bit, in my mind at least, and it might come through in the writing, I dunno. My goal from now on is to make things make sense, no matter how long that takes, whether this fic is twenty or twenty-five or thirty chapters long, I want to make it a congruent story that you might want to read again—and that if you _did _read again, would make sense to you.

Also: special thanks to Framboesinha (or lindsayleigh1, on the group) for the greatest review I have ever received. You are an author's best friend.

Yesterday's Tomorrow  
_Potter47_

_**Part Three  
October**_

"Be assured, the wicked will not go unpunished,  
but those who are righteous will escape."  
— Proverbs 11.21

_**Chapter Sixteen  
The Broom Shed**_

_29 October, _

_Dear Harry,_

——

Ginny stared at the broom shed after breakfast as usual—except it wasn't breakfast as usual at all.

She shivered as she thought back to it—the tension between Petunia and Molly had finally reached a fever pitch... and what a pitch it turned out to be.

Rubbing her ear without quite realising it, Ginny turned her thoughts away from the fiasco in the kitchen and towards the Enigma of the Broom Shed (as she'd redubbed it) but of course that didn't work because when one tries their best not to think of something they invariably do think of it.

"..._tolerated such DESPICABLE conditions for how long? How long? And now you—"_

"_Despicable conditions? Listen here, _Petunia, _I have slaved to your every whim for the past two months, and you invariably do nothing more than glance at me as though I were a house-elf's _servant!"

Ginny couldn't help but smile at the actual words, she was so proud of her mum for actually getting them out... she knew how that felt, after all. However, she frowned at the volumes, and thought back to the result—Petunia had attempted to storm out the front door—

"_Arthur do something, she can't _leave, _they'll find her—"_

—and at her mother's hurried insistence, her father had managed to literally drag Petunia back into the Burrow. By the time they'd crossed the threshold, she had been crying pitifully, like an overgrown baby...

"_I miss my china, damn it, I miss my teacups..._" she whimpered, and then she gulped audibly. "_I miss my Dudley! Vernon...!" _She began to sob and Arthur had helped her up to her room, awkwardly.

Ginny's mum had watched the whole ordeal from the kitchen and Ginny could _feel_ her mum's sympathy start to grow for Petunia once again. Without a word on Ginny's part, Molly said, "_Yes, the garden, go ahead. Thirty minutes._"

And so Ginny sat here now, her pen out and notebook on her lap, staring at the broom shed.

She could not think of anything at all to write.

Biting her lip and shaking her head slightly, Ginny put the book down, covered the pen, and looked away from the broom shed for once, looked at the clouds and the trees and everything else that was perpetually moving, in contrast to the broom shed which never did anything of interest...

_I suppose it's good that I don't have anything to write about, _Ginny thought, _I've only got a few pages left anyway... I wonder if Dad has any more notebooks?_

Reminding herself to ask the next time she saw her father, Ginny let her eyes close, and let the sun hit the eyelids, and she watched the orangey-ness because it was so much better than the blackness she was so used to.

Then the orangey-ness suddenly _was _the blackness she was used to—and it was cold out, really cold out, didn't she have a sweater on? Her mum never would have let her go out without a sweater on at the end of October, so she must... why couldn't she tell, anyway?

Cold... Very, very cold. Freezing... stone, freezing stone. Hard stone. Freezing hard stone.

_Stone?_

But—but she was on the garden bench, it wasn't _stone,_ it was... it was... a bench, why was she lying down? She was on the bench...

_No. No no no no no. Don't you—_

"Don't you see it, Ginny? Don't you feel it?"

_Damn it! _Ginny had thought she only had to relive this hell night after night, not in between as well... how could she have let herself fall asleep, damn it...?

_It is..._

"It is..._beginning_."

"It's already begun, damn it," she muttered, and suddenly the Riddle in front of her blinked and he'd never blinked like that before and Ginny felt something wrong...

"You're not supposed to say that," he said awkwardly, quietly, as though he were an actor in a play, and Ginny had gone off-script.

"Ginny, you're _supposed_ to say '_What is? What are you—what do you—what does it—what is it_—'" Ginny's younger self supplied in perfect imitation. Then her face scrunched up in confusion— "Why would you say something like _that_, that's not how it _goes_."

"What?"

"No, '_What is?_' That's what you're supposed to say."

Ginny blinked. _What on earth..._

"No, you're not supposed to think that, Ginny."

"Will you just shut up?"

"Oh, I suppose it's lost already, isn't it?"

"What?"

Both selves shrugged. "I don't think you're going to like sleeping tonight, though," the Riddle one said.

"Why?"

He opened his mouth to speak but suddenly he was gone and so was the other one, and so was Ginny because the orangey-ness was back for a moment and then her eyes were open and her mother's face was there.

"_Bed._"

_No thank you, _Ginny thought as she stood and walked to her room, dutifully carrying her notebook by her side.

—_—_

Ginny sat on her bed now, watching the sunlight trickle in through the window and still not having anything to write. Well, that wasn't quite as it seemed, for she _had _written, she'd written of the strange goings on in her mind... but it was a very short, cold writing, it didn't capture her thoughts nearly as well as usual.

Ginny reckoned she was nervous now, for some reason... partly with the understandable fear of the coming night (_four o'clock, how long till sleep, four o'clock, probably five hours..._) but with the futile anxiety of having only one page left in the notebook.

She'd been gnawing on her lips all day, worse than usual, and they were feeling especially biteable right now—as well as especially painful, but she didn't want to think about that.

So.

One page... front and back, one page... the lines stared up at her tauntingly, hauntingly, yelling at her to deface them with her now-practiced perpendicular writing... but how?

How could she end it? How could she finish off Volume I of the Chronicles of Ginny? It seemed a very permanent gesture... what if her father _didn't_ have anymore notebooks...? (_He could find some at work, but still..._) What if she couldn't find the desire to write in a new book, what if the magic was gone...? (_It's certainly still there _now_, isn't it, Miss "I had a weird dream. It was in the Chamber again. I don't think it was a dream. It was strange..."_)

Ginny shook her head to clear the double-mindedness, and turned back to the first page of the book, to see how she'd begun it all—

_Dear Harry,_

_I love you..._

Well, that seemed as good a place to start as any, so she copied the five words to the edge of the last page.

_I love you..._

What else was there to say? There had to be something...

"_I miss you so much_"? How many times had she told him that? And... and by the time he read this, she'll have seen him anyway, so it seemed pointless to go into how much she missed him yet another time...

Ginny looked up from the near-blank page and looked at her window again, looked at the sunlight...

Shaking her head in disgust at her writer's block, she put her pen to the paper and just let go—let everything pour out, she didn't care if it was repetitive, didn't care if it made sense... she knew it would be the truth, and that was what mattered.

——

Seven o'clock.

Ginny, staring at the ceiling.

_Hello, dear crumbling piece of plaster. Long time no see. How've you been? Yeah, I haven't talked much lately..._

Ginny shook her head to clear it of the insanity—she'd been thinking like Luna there for a minute, and that was vaguely terrifying—and thought about something. She couldn't remember what it was a moment later, which was a peculiar yet familiar feeling... just thinking about somethingness.

_Knock, knock._

"Yes?" said Ginny, and her voice came out oddly strangled, as though she'd been half asleep, or perhaps busy thinking about something more important—

"Could I speak with you a minute?"

That was her mum, sounding... a bit worried, there was a disconcerting tremble in the way she said "you."

Ginny sat up and went to the door and her mum was there on the other side—biting her lip.

"Your... your father won't be home tonight," Molly said, not quite looking at Ginny, her voice best described as going back-and-forth—a bit too high one moment, a bit too low the next. "Orders from Professor Dumbledore... busy till morning... I didn't want you to worry."

Ginny wondered what her mum wasn't telling her... probably just the specifics... she didn't need to know anyway, so she didn't press it.

"Thanks," she said.

"You're welcome," said Molly, nodding, and she walked down, away, downstairs... Ginny watched her go, watched her disappear around the wall... she leaned one hand against it on the way down, to balance...

_Hey, tomorrow's her birthday... I'd forgotten..._ Ginny had nothing to give her mum at all, she hoped she didn't mind... but then, since it had been Molly who kept Ginny so tightly wound to home, she couldn't very well have expected Ginny to buy something...

_She needs to rest,_ said Ginny to herself. _She's killing herself..._

"Mum!" Ginny called, stepping out her bedroom door and moving quickly down the stairs. She caught her mum as she was stepping off the final step, and Molly jumped terribly when she did so.

"Ginny, what are you doing? You frightened me terribly..."

"Sorry... Mum, why don't you go to bed? You look... really tired, you know, and... we've been through this before, haven't we? You're putting too much on yourself..."

"Ginny, Ginny, Ginny... I'm... I'm _busy_—" And then Molly seemed to surprise herself with a thought, for her face drastically changed in a moment. "Oh dear I can't remember what I'm busy with..."

Ginny smiled then— "Then go to bed. The house isn't going to fall down if you close your eyes, Mum—and you know, _you're _probably going to, if you don't..."

Molly was pensive for a moment, and then, almost surprisingly, she gave in. "All right. I'm going to make myself a pot of tea first, then I'll go to bed... would you like some?"

"No thanks," said Ginny. "Promise me you won't wash the pot or the mug afterward, OK? You'll make your tea and you'll drink it, and then you'll go to _sleep_, and you're not going to invent some new chore in the meantime..."

"What's gotten into you, Ginny?" said Molly, sounding suddenly serious, even though she hadn't sounded unserious before. "You don't sound like yourself, you haven't sounded like yourself in ages... you sound like an old maid, that's what you sound like, dear..."

Ginny thought she did sound rather unlike herself, a bit... "Well, Mum, one day I'm going to be one, aren't I? A glimpse of the future, perhaps, maybe your Inner Eye's suddenly tuned itself..."

"Don't talk like that, Ginny, how do you think that makes me feel? My baby's an old maid, what does that make me?"

"I'm not _really _an old maid, Mum—"

"You should sound like a girl, Ginny, you should sound like you're your age, like you're having the time of your life and you're happy and this isn't very fair, is it?" Molly sniffled then, and Ginny realised she was more tired than she'd suspected, she was going off on a tangent— "You've had a dreadful time of it, with the war on... Thank God you haven't had to go through... my brothers... but still, you should be... happy... are you happy, Ginny?"

"At the moment?" said Ginny.

"Yes... well, I suppose not, what with your being stuck here when everyone else is in school, and Harry being... well. But there's nothing I could have done, is there? I mean... is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, Mum," said Ginny. "You can go to sleep. We've been standing in this stairway for ten minutes now, and you said you'd go to bed."

"Oh... yes... perhaps I won't have that tea after all..."

——

Ginny was headed back to her room when she noticed Petunia's door was open a crack—somehow unable to stop herself, she peered inside, to see Harry's aunt sleeping dead-looking upon one of the beds... and then Ginny saw that she _wasn't _quite so dead-looking as she normally was, because her mouth was moving rapidly.

"No, no, no, no, not Dudley, _please _not Dudley..."

Her body convulsed in a great sleep-shiver then, and calmed, and the muttering continued softly...

"_Nooooo_..."

Ginny pulled her gaze away. She was, somehow, the soundest mind in this house of broken women, despite her illness...

_Whatever happened to that, anyway? _She unconsciously rubbed the top of her head, perhaps trying-but-not-really-trying to find the bump Madam Pomfrey had found...

Biting her lip, Ginny thought about that whole debacle, and not for the first time came to the disappointing conclusion—

Madam Pomfrey had come back two days after the first time, appearing full of anxiety and empty of everything else.

"_I'm sorry,_" she had said, "_this bruise... I'd thought... I've never seen anything quite the same before. I'd thought it was... well, there was one thing it might have been... but it wasn't, I looked it all up, not to worry..._" She had made to leave then, and then doubled back, as though to make sure of something—

"_Miss Weasley... you... have you had any multiple-dreams lately? What I mean is..." _she had added, at Ginny's blank look, "_double-dreams, or triple-dreams, quadruple, quintuple... nothing like that, yes?_" Ginny hadn't, and she said as much—the only dreams she _had _been having were the ones of her Chamber, the same over and over again and never double- or triple-...

Madam Pomfrey had seemed reassured, and she'd left, promising to do more research. She'd said to alert her if anything out of the ordinary happened, and she hadn't checked back since.

Ginny felt fine...

——

Nine o'clock.

Ginny, staring at the ceiling.

The crumbling piece of plaster was dreadfully tired of Ginny's persistent, beating, silence, and so it decided to attack. It landed listlessly on her cheek, and she blew it off, jerking awkwardly.

Without realising it, Ginny closed her eyes—she only noticed when she realised everything was all black. She was tired... very tired... but should she sleep? What had Tom said?

_I don't think you're going to like sleeping tonight..._

What did that mean? Was she going to go back to her Chamber, but have it all different again? Would they torment her... tease her... make fun of her... blame her, make her feel... awful... would her self want to play hide and seek again?

She was so very tired... she remembered when she was little she used to try to stay awake when her father worked late, to be able to greet him when he returned, to have him tuck her in to bed... and she'd invariably fallen asleep faster than she would have otherwise. The striving for wakefulness only makes you more sleepy...

It was rather chilly... late October, after all...

Ginny made to pull the blanket over her tighter, but it wasn't there.

It was cold.

Cold... Very, very cold. Freezing... stone, freezing stone. Hard stone. Freezing hard stone.

Her eyes opened. Had they been closed? (_Yes, they had._) She couldn't remember. (_Yes, I could_.) Something felt odd. (_Yes, it does_.)

She looked around. _No...not again... _(_It's not really that surprising, actually._)

Stone pillars towered around her. An enormous statue rose by the back wall of the chamber.

_The_ Chamber.

The Chamber of Secrets.

"Ginny, Ginny, listen—" said her voice in her ear—her younger self was leaning over her, beside her, her mouth in Ginny's ear—

"Ginny, be careful. You _know_ what's real. You _know _it. _Don't let yourself forget_."

Ginny looked up, saw her self, and before she could even voice the "_Wha...?_" that was forming behind her mouth, her self was gone, replaced by the blackness of her bedroom.

_That was... abrupt. _

Ginny looked up again now, though she couldn't quite remember looking down, and she saw the crumbling bit of plaster above her, the very same one she'd spoken with earlier—

_But it fell..._

And so did she, didn't she? She had a memory of falling, when had that been, when had she fallen? What had she fallen through?

She shook her head to clear the strange, illsensical thoughts, and she saw the darkness and the darkness was too much, and then it was gone because the flashes were coming from the window and they illuminated the Dementor that happened to be floating above her bed.

_The what the what the what the...?_

Her eyes widened in horror—a Dementor? Here? Yes, here, right there, its horrible mouth seemingly glowing in the darkness. Futilely, Ginny tried to do something, to move, to cast a spell, but she could not do something, could not move...

The Dementor lowered its hood, and it leaned over towards her mouth and it began to suck, and—

Suddenly it was Harry, kissing her, and they were atop the Astronomy Tower and her rainbow was there, in the sky above them, glittering with colour, and Ginny leaned into Harry, clutching at him, hoping he would stay with her forever.

And then he pulled back, and it was Tom, and he smiled and smiled and laughed and laughed and she fell back in horror. She landed on her pillow and her eyes snapped open.

Breathing heavily, Ginny stared at the ceiling above her. _Nightmare_, she thought. _Only a nightmare._

"_But nightmares are reality_," hissed a voice by Ginny's ear. "_Whether you think they are or not_."

Ginny rolled to her side, falling off of the bed and catching a glimpse of Tom, now smirking on her pillow, as she fell.

Falling, falling... the ultimate feeling of helplessness. Not a thing to do to prevent the inevitable crash...

Ginny was in the air, in the sky, and she was soon no longer sure whether she was falling down or the sky was falling up. Her eyes tried to close, but they could not. They stung painfully from the wind, and Ginny felt them watering. When was she going to land? She could not see anything but clouds...

But then she was on fire, it seemed. She was melting...melting, but at the same time she felt drenched with water. Or was it sweat? No, it was cool, like water; she was swimming, and melting, and dying and breathing, all at once.

And then she was floating, no, flying. She was on her broom, flying high above the grounds of Hogwarts, and it had just rained, because there was the rainbow above the school, and she flew without knowing where she was going. She was above the Astronomy Tower now, and Harry was there, kissing someone, but it wasn't her he was kissing—Ginny charged her broom down at them, and without realising it she had hit them and they went flying without brooms, right off the edge of the tower.

Panicked, Ginny swooped around. She couldn't care less about Cho—it must have been Cho, after all, it was Cho last time—but Harry was falling as well, and she sped as quick as she could to try to catch up. She was level with him, and his eyes were open, and he spoke to her, and the whole world was gone except for his voice. It chilled her to the bone, and it seemed they were no longer moving.

"You can't save me, Ginny," he said. "You could never save me. I'm gone. And you can't do anything."

"No!" said Ginny, trying with all her might to catch hold of him. She couldn't. "I can save you!"

He shook his head. "You could never save me. I'm dying, and it's all your fault."

"No!" said Ginny again, reaching as far as she could reach, but she could not grab hold of Harry. He closed his mouth and his eyes and suddenly they were falling again and he hit the ground, and he was gone.

"NO!" screamed Ginny, and she fell once again, over the edge of her bed, and awoke with a loud thud. Her eyes opened once again—but now they really were open. She was awake, really now, and she took a deep breath before getting to her feet.

"Only a nightmare," said Ginny aloud, and though no voice answered her this time, but Ginny knew that she was wrong. It hadn't been only a nightmare. It had been much more than that.

She paced back and forth a minute, just a few steps forward and back along her floor, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand, trying to clear it... it wouldn't quite work.

She was really awake now, she knew that much at least. She sat down on the edge of her bed and took a breath, calm down, calm down, calm... what had that been about, anyway?

Ginny could not help feel a sense of deja vu at her nightmare... yes, she remembered now, she had had one very similar to it, just before the Chamber had started repeating itself. Back in July...

Her room was suddenly illuminated and she wanted to swear.

She threw herself backwards on her bed, slamming down into the mattress and covering her head with her arms, to block out the light—she didn't _want _this to be a dream, she'd been so _sure_ she'd woken up, but now the stupid broom shed was flashing so she must still be asleep...

She opened one eye and peeked out through her arms into the darkness of the room—she certainly _felt _awake...

FLASH.

Her eye closed again on its own accord, and she told herself _Wake up, wake up, wake up...!_ but she didn't wake up because she wasn't asleep.

Sitting up again, she waited a moment, and then saw the flash once again, flooding her room with light from outside her window, just as it had all that time ago, on the first of the month...

She stood, and walked cautiously to the window—half of her still expecting a Dementor to show up or to suddenly change perspective and be falling off a tower, or perhaps to find herself in the Chamber again... but no, she was really awake, and she was really standing by the window, and she really was seeing the broom shed illuminated with light.

FLASH.

The broom shed, yes, the Riddle of the Broom Shed...

She shook her head—the _Mystery _of the Broom Shed, not the Rid—no, the _Enigma _of the Broom Shed, that was it...

_It doesn't matter, _she reminded herself.

Watching out the window, Ginny didn't know what this meant—surely if there had been Death Eaters, they would have been taken care of the first time, they would have been caught, and would most definitely not be back? Surely Dumbledore had known exactly what had happened, and had told Ginny's dad, and that was why he hadn't appeared worried again after that night...?

Then what _was _causing the flash?

Ginny sighed, and turned away from the window—she picked up her wand on the bedside table, slipped on her slippers, and set quietly out of her room.

——

_Click_, Ginny turned the lock on the kitchen door—it echoed loudly in the silent, nighttime-house and stepped out in the garden just as the broom shed flashed once again.

_It's so bright..._ she marvelled, even though she'd seen it so many times before. It shocked her, the brightness... now that she was outside, the light appeared nothing short of otherworldly.

She began to walk towards it, anxiously—part of her didn't want to see it, wanted to go back inside because _what if it was Death Eaters after all...?_ but the rest of her felt an incredibly strong pull _towards _the broom shed, towards the light...

Ginny had to remind herself to keep her wand raised.

Step, step, step, the grass frigid beneath her slippered feet, Ginny moved closer... the thought struck her that this was the farthest she'd been from the house in _forever_...

_Wand UP, arm..._

Why was she having such trouble with that? She may very well have been leading herself into certain peril, and yet she was struggling to remind herself there was any danger at all.

..._since when was the broom shed this far away...?_

For a split second she considered the possibility that she was still dreaming, and that was why it was taking so very long to reach the light—but the coolness beneath her feet and the wintry air biting at her arms told her otherwise. And besides... _she was there._

Ginny swallowed, took a breath, and bit her lip all at once and wondered what that must have looked like.

Suddenly she had no idea what she was doing—should she just open the door, now that she was here? Surely that would make sense, but... she couldn't seem to get her arm to move towards it.

"_Who are you?_" she said aloud, instead, attempting to shout but finding herself unable... it was almost as though she were afraid to wake her mum, and that was why she couldn't raise her voice... but of course that couldn't have been the only reason.

There was no answer, not even another flash...

"_WHO are you?"_ she said again, louder, and when there was no response she had the distinct feeling she was talking to a broom shed.

...which she was.

Shaking her head, and telling herself there was no alternative, Ginny flung her arm rather wildly at the doorknob, and just as she pulled it wide—

FLASH.

——

_Am I asleep?_

_It's so bright... I must be asleep._

_...but then, I've never dreamt of something this bright before..._

_...maybe I'm dead. Could that be it? Is this what death is like?_

_But how could I be dead? Was it Death Eaters after all? Was that flash a Killing Curse?_

_...but it was white..._

_...it IS white..._

_This isn't green, this is whiter than white._

_I'm not dead._

_Am I dreaming...?_

——

The flash was gone as soon as it had appeared, and Ginny found herself standing just where she'd been before—in the doorway of the broom shed. The doorknob was still in her fist, and her wand in her other hand... and the flash was gone, was it not...?

_Then what is that light?_

There was still a light, in the centre of the broom shed, a bright, bright light. But it wasn't just a light—it was a _body_, a body bathed in that blinding white light, and Ginny could not blink. That was her first thought, that she could not blink even if she were to try...

"Who are you?" she said again, quietly.

"_Who are you?_" repeated the figure in a ghostly voice, a haunting voice, a voice that seemed more like an echo than a voice in its own right—perhaps it was...perhaps it was only an echo of what Ginny had said.

"Ginny Weasley," she said, answering the question she wasn't sure if the spirit had asked...

"_Ginny Weasley,_" it repeated, and nodded, somehow... she wasn't sure how she saw that it nodded, it didn't really have a defined head. All she could see were its wings, it had great shining wings that could hardly be told apart from its body—she only noticed them because they were bent. Its wings were bent, and she trusted it, somehow.

"Why are you here?" said Ginny, and she expected another echo, but instead received a reply:

"We are here to draw you out," it said, this... _angel_ said, for that was what it seemed to be the most, except perhaps an anti-Dementor...

"Draw me out?" said Ginny harshly—that didn't sound good, she'd thought this thing was good, it _felt _good, inherently not-bad...

"Yes, Ginny Weasley, to draw you out. We are here to draw you away from here and towards where you are needed."

"Hang on... _we?_" Ginny only saw one of this thing, how could it be a 'we'?

"Yes," it said, and it left it at that.

"Why are you... drawing me out _now_? What are you?"

"We are drawing you out now because you are to be needed."

"Why? What am I needed for? What... that was you before, wasn't it? The first time? Why _then, _why were you trying to draw me out then?"

"We were not _trying_ to draw you out _then_, we are drawing you out _now_, and _then _led to now."

"_What?_" said Ginny, for surely she had no idea what it was saying... and yet, she somehow did. It _felt _at least as though this thing were saying that the first night of flashing had been to prepare her for _this _night, when she would actually be needed... as though this thing had teased her in advance so that she would not hesitate to respond when the time actually came.

_Came for what? Time for what?_

"What am I needed for?" she asked again, and the angel did not answer.

"Go," it said. "Go now."

"What?" she said again, but it did not answer—probably because it knew, again, that she wasn't really asking because somehow she understood.

"Go, Ginny Weasley. _Go_."

And then it went. Gone in a moment that lasted forever, this thing, this anti-Dementor, this _angel,_ it... went, it disappeared, faded into nothingness, faded to nothing...

And when it was gone, she saw—inexplicably clearly, despite the near-blackness of the night—just in its place... her broom.

——

Ginny felt the cold whip about her face—and along with that nasty little twig, a thought struck her. It most likely should not have been this cold, this early—it was only Halloween morning, now, after all, why was it so very frigid?

She shivered and held tighter to the broom, huddling herself closer to the wooden handle and keeping herself as small as she could, so as to gain speed.

Was she really doing this? Had she really, honestly, truly broken out of that damned prison of her mind? Had that damned angel really had this in its head the whole time, was _this _why she had seen the flashes to begin with, was all of it really nothing more than a way to get her out of the Burrow...?

It certainly seemed so... Ginny shook her head at the insanity.

Was she really going to see Harry again... _today?_ Oh, Lord, how long had it been? Only two months, really, but it felt so very much longer... she wanted to hug him, more than anything else, she wanted to hug him and be hugged by him, she could almost—but not quite—remember what that felt like...

_DAMN IT, _she thought—she hadn't taken the notebook with her, all those pages and pages of words to him... part of her wanted to turn back for it, but she wouldn't dare. If her mum caught her, she'd never get another chance... and she could tell Harry everything in person, anyway, what did it really matter?

Thinking of her mum, Ginny realised with a bit of trepidation that today was October the Thirtieth... today was her mum's birthday, and today of all days she'd deserted her. That was awful... her mum would be heartbroken... perhaps she _should _turn back after all...?

But no, it was too far, she'd gone too far to turn back now... looking around her, and thinking, she figured that she must be just about in Scotland by—

Ginny suddenly felt an indescribable pain, sharp, stabbing... all over her body, _OH... oh... ow..._

And then she felt a distinct pain in her shoulder, even though the stabbing pains were still encompassing the rest of her, this was new, this was different... and she realised she'd fallen off the broom, and hit the ground—that was this new feeling, her shoulder hitting the ground—and then the world was black.

_**Chapter Seventeen  
Coming Soon**_

Review, everybody... please. (I just got review number 50 on fanfiction,net! Yay!—who wants to make it 60 by chapter seventeen...:) )


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